


Some Weird Sin

by misha_anon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Coercion (non-sexual), Come Sharing, Confrontations, Drug Use, Embarrassment, First Kiss, First Time, Historical, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Homophobic/Abusive John Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Abuse, Punk AU, Punk Castiel, Racism, Rutting, Sexual Harassment, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:33:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When nineteen-year-old Dean left Kansas behind to get lost in the crowds of New York City, he only knew he had to get away and find himself.  He never expected to find himself in the middle of the city's punk scene and in love with the ridiculously handsome singer of Linear Lime Fortress.  Castiel falls just as hard for Dean, but he's never exactly been the staying type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, this story would not exist without my amazing friends [Nell](http://www.mostly10.com) and [Michele](http://your-belle.tumblr.com). They beta'd for me and gave me great feedback to help keep me on track and tons of encouragement. They are, in short, the actual best.
> 
> There is a lot of marijuana in this story and a lot of implied and internalized homophobia. _It's set in New York City in 1979, though, so those things are sort of to be expected._ I've played a little fast and loose with both history and the effects of weed.
> 
> I had high literary aspirations for this story, but in the end it turned out to be much-plottier-than-usual-smut and I'm 100% okay with that. ;-)
> 
> The title is from an Iggy Pop song of the same name. <3

“What happened to that chick who was hanging around?”  Michael’s question comes at the end of a long exhale, smoke filling the air around his head like a gray halo.  His eyes are half closed, watching Castiel’s face as he hands off the joint pinched between finger and thumb to Raphael.

“You mean the one he was _dating_?”  Raphael asks with a snort.

Castiel kicks at Raphael’s foot halfheartedly and closes his eyes to enjoy the rush of blood through his ears.  He’s sprawled in the middle of Michael’s living room floor, body humming with the effects of choice weed and the warm sun on his bare stomach.  He thinks about the question for a moment, a pang of guilt echoing through his chest at the memory of how surprised she’d been when he told her he wasn’t really as into their relationship as she was.  Daphne was a good girl, cute, but she wanted kids and that was definitely _not_ Castiel’s bag.

“We disagreed about the direction our romance appeared to be going,” Castiel finally answers, pasting a grin on his face.  Michael and Raphael dissolve into laughter; Castiel just keeps smiling and reaches blindly for the joint he knows he’ll find waiting.

“Just like every _other_ chick you’ve dated since we were kids,” Michael says as Castiel takes a deep drag.  He feels toes digging into his thigh, but he doesn’t open his eyes.  “Starting to think there’s something wrong with you, man.”

Castiel shrugs and exhales slowly, passing off the joint before stretching, long and catlike and wriggling his body more fully into the afternoon sun.  When he finally opens his eyes, Raphael is watching him curiously and Michael’s eyes are closed.  He’s known these guys since they were kids and it’s not as though they don’t _know_ that he’s just as happy to take a dude home as a chick; it’s that they seem determined that it’s something he’ll get over.

What they _don’t_ know is that Castiel views dating women as good business.  Some creepy fuck with a bar they want to play in has a sister who needs a date to the prom?  Castiel is willing to do what needs to be done to get the gig.  He knows they’re all in high demand since their little band got on the radar, the difference is that while Raphael and Michael are enjoying being balls-deep in the girl of the week, Castiel doesn’t see it as any different from dragging equipment up five flights of stairs to his tiny, piece of shit apartment after every show since it’s still all he can afford.  Dating some bar owner’s kid sister is just another means to an end.

“He’s waiting for Prince Charming,” Michael says, not for the first time, and he and Raphael have another laugh at Castiel’s expense.

“Get fucked,” Castiel replies good-naturedly, flipping them both off before pushing to his feet.  He sways in place, ignoring the laughter of his band mates as he gets his bearings and heads off toward the front door with a smirk plastered on his face.  Before he opens it, he looks back over his shoulder and tells them, “Load in’s at eight; you bastards had better be there to help this time.”

***

Unsurprisingly, Michael and Raphael don’t make it to the bar until after eight thirty, long after Castiel has finished loading in the heavy equipment.  They wander up nonchalantly as he’s wiping his face on an already soaked bandana, feigning innocence.  Once they get everything set up and Raphael has decided his drums are in tune enough to suffice; they rush through soundcheck.  Castiel is glad that Daphne doesn’t seem to be working, though there’s another bartender - a pretty girl with long, red hair - who’s giving him the eye as he watches the first opening act play their set.

Castiel’s band, Linear Lime Fortress, takes the stage next and their show is off and running without a hitch.  They pace themselves for a forty-five-minute set played to an enthusiastic, screaming crowd that’s packed like sardines into the little bar.  The energy is high and Michael is bouncing around the stage like a coked up jackrabbit, swinging his guitar so wildly it’s a wonder he ever hits any note at all, much less the right ones.  

Somewhere around the middle of the set, Castiel leans out over the crowd, taunting them with lyrics he knows they know, pushing his hair out of his face as he finds himself nose to nose with someone who’s screaming the words right back.  He nearly falls off the stage when the lights swing out of his eyes and he can _see_ the guy in front of him.  His vivid green eyes are half closed, but still unmistakably those of a guy who started showing up at gigs out of nowhere a month and a half-ago.  Every time Castiel has tried to find him after a show; the guy is already gone.  The more he disappears, the more Castiel wants to talk to him.  Now here he is, right in Castiel’s face, his sandy hair dark with sweat and his plush, pink lips almost close enough to kiss as they scream about the ways in which a government is similar to a bad relationship.

With great effort, Castiel drags himself away and bounces across the stage, narrowly missing Michael in the process.  As they launch into the next song, his heart is pounding from more than just the music.  The rest of the set goes by in a flash and Castiel is exhausted by the time he takes a bow and heads off the stage.  When he makes it to the edge, he turns and scans the crowd, looking for the elusive green-eyed boy only to find that - as always - he’s nowhere to be seen.  With a frustrated curse, Castiel pulls the bandana out of his back pocket to wipe his face.  He grabs his leather jacket off a worn chair and heads out the back door for a little peace and quiet and a well-earned cigarette.

The wide alley is lit only by a little orange-tinted light over the bar’s back door, a perfect change from bright lights and claustrophobic feeling of being on stage.  Castiel takes a deep breath, inhaling the dirt-wet scent of fresh rain and shivering against the chill of the autumn night.  He pulls his creaking leather jacket closer around himself and lights his cigarette before shoving his Zippo back into his jeans pocket.  His ears still ring from the music, but he leans back against the cold brick wall and smiles with satisfaction.

He’s halfway through his cigarette and well on his way to letting go of his frustration over the constant near-misses with guy with bright green eyes and unripped jeans who is most definitely _not from around here_ when he hears the scuff of someone walking up the alley in his direction.  Castiel opens one eye and sees a familiar shape; wide shoulders and narrow hips and short spiked hair; walking toward him.  He blinks slowly to make sure he isn’t imagining things.  He isn’t.  The mystery man is walking hesitantly his way, unmistakable for his clean clothes and the distinct lack of metal stuck anywhere in his face as it becomes clear when he steps into the faint ring of light thrown off the single bulb over Castiel’s head.

“You’re Castiel,” the man says.  He seems nervous, wiping his hands on his jeans and smiling shyly.  "I.. I love your music."

"Thanks, kid," Castiel answers after he blows out smoke and reminds himself to stay cool.  Up close like this he can see that this "kid" isn't much younger than he is; maybe a couple of years.  Cas pushes up off the wall and stares.  The guy shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, clearing his throat like he wants to say something else.  He’s just as beautiful close up as Castiel thought he was and he radiates something way too good and wholesome to be slumming around in a New York alley; and damned if Castiel doesn't want to just start talking and never stop.  Instead he asks, "What's your name?"

"Dean," the guy says a little too quickly, a drawl evident in the single syllable.  "Dean Winchester.  I just moved to New York a couple of months ago.”

Castiel laughs in surprise at the added information and wonders if Dean really thinks he needs to tell people he’s not from New York City.  He finds it hard to believe that there are any natives left who can’t spot an import from a mile away.  Dean's face falls and he takes a half a step back, biting at his lip nervously.  Castiel instantly feels like a dick for laughing at Dean’s eagerness, so he takes one last drag off his cigarette and throws it down, then offers his hand to shake.

"Where did you move here from, Dean Winchester?”  Castiel asks a little more gently than he actually means to.   He tries to ignore the thrill that shoots through him like pins and needles when Dean grabs his hand and shakes it firmly.  The way Dean's face lights up again makes it hard to breathe and there's a blush under all those goddamned freckles splashed across Dean’s nose and cheeks and Castiel knows that he is so incredibly fucked, but he doesn't even care.

"Kansas," Dean answers.  

He's looking straight into Castiel's eyes and he's just about equal parts star-struck and cocky and Castiel’s stomach flutters with the sudden realization that he has no idea what to do with a guy like this, so he runs the fingers of his left hand through his tangled hair, pushing it back out of his face again and mutters, "What the fuck's a farm boy doing in New York?"

Dean laughs like the question is the funniest thing he's ever heard, his eyes sparkling in the dim light and that's about the time Castiel notices that they're still shaking hands and decides he has no intention whatsoever of pulling away a second before he _has_ to.  By the time Dean stops laughing, he's managed to step smack into Castiel's personal space but, Castiel doesn’t really mind that, either.  

In fact, he's pretty sure that he's found the Prince Charming Michael so enjoys needling him about when the freckled farm boy bows up, pushes his chest out, and growls as tough as he can, "Kansas can suck my dick."

Just then, the door swings open beside them and Raphael pokes his head out in search of Castiel.  His eyes land first on Dean, then travel down his arm to the hand that’s still shaking Castiel’s.  Dean jerks away quickly and takes a step back as Raphael turns his attention to his bandmate.  

“ _There_ you are!  We need you,” Raphael says, grinning as he looks back at Dean and arches a brow to add, “If you’re not too busy.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”  Castiel’s lips draw into a thin line as he looks up to see Dean’s face flushed red with embarrassment at Raphael’s salacious tone.  He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile then looks back to Raphael, eyes narrowing as he repeats, “In a minute.”

Raphael snorts, but mercifully lets the door slam shut as he retreats.  When Castiel looks back toward Dean, he’s already starting to edge away, his face practically glowing red even in near darkness.  Castiel takes a step toward him and reaches out, grabbing Dean’s elbow instinctively.  Dean stops and looks up, the corners of his lips pulled down in a faint frown and all Castiel can think about is kissing him until he smiles again.

“He’s a dick,” he says instead, giving another easy smile and letting his hand slide down the thick fabric of Dean’s jacket to his wrist, afraid to let him go in case he disappears for good this time.

“Yeah, he is,” Dean says, looking back toward the door.  He doesn’t pull away from the light grip on his wrist, though; a fact that gives Castiel the courage to rush blindly forward with an invitation he almost never gives.

“There’s an after party at my apartment and I want you to come, Dean,” he says in one quick breath.  His heart pounds against his breastbone almost painfully as he stands completely still, afraid to even breathe lest he scare Dean away.  As an afterthought, he adds a breathless, “Please?”

Dean hesitates, indecision flitting across his face as he bites at his lip again.  He looks hard at Castiel, looks straight through him as though he’s sizing him up.  Castiel feels like he’s going to die from the suspense by the time Dean finally gives him the same shy smile from before and nods slowly.  

“I’d like that,” Dean answers and Castiel would _swear_ he sounds a little breathless, too.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel is already pleasantly buzzed by the time Dean makes it to the after party, he’s also threatened both Raphael _and_ Michael with their lives if they make him regret showing up.  Much to his surprise - and eternal gratitude - his bandmates show unusual decorum in their interactions with the fresh-faced Kansas farm boy.  Dean, for his part, is much more relaxed once he’s got a couple of beers and a few tokes in his system.  He sprawls on the worn couch beside Castiel, staring at the place where their knees barely touch with a little pleased smile while Castiel stares at his profile, memorizing the tiny bump on his nose and the thickness of his tongue when he licks out over his lips again and again.

“I thought I gave you bad directions,” Castiel says finally, forgetting about the rest of the party.

One corner of Dean’s lips lift in a wry smile; he blinks and shakes his head before he answers with a thick drawl, “Wasn’t gonna come.”

The music is just loud enough that Castiel has to lean in closer to continue the conversation and he props his elbow on Dean’s shoulder for lack of a better place to put it.  Laughter and other people’s voices fade into the background as his guests enjoy themselves.  Castiel smiles, slow and lazy, his voice feeling like molasses bubbling up from his chest as he asks, “What changed your mind?”

“Never been to an after party before,” Dean answers.  He leans his head back against the back of the couch and pushes his knee harder against Castiel’s.  “I’ve heard about plenty of ‘em, but no one’s ever invited me.”

“Hmm,” Castiel hums, letting his gaze slide unabashedly down the long line of Dean’s throat to the point where tanned skin meets a black t-shirt.  “That’s a shame.  Is it everything it’s cracked up to be?”

Dean laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he does so.  When he stops laughing, a far away smile still curls his lips until he licks them again, his thick tongue rolling slowly, hesitating against his bottom lip.  Castiel swallows reflexively and shifts the tiniest bit as his dick takes notice.  Dean _doesn’t_ notice, he just gives a slow nod and an “mmhmm”, then licks his lips again.

“You want some water?”  Castiel tries to keep the husk from his voice, but fails miserably.  He feels his cheeks heating, swears to himself it’s just the fact that there are fifteen people in his tiny apartment.

“Yeah, man,” Dean says, lifting his head to look at Castiel.  “I’m real thirsty.”

“You didn’t tell me you were such a lightweight,” Castiel says teasingly as he forces himself up off the couch to retrieve a glass of water.

“I didn’t _know_ I was,” Dean answers with a hoarse laugh, his eyelids drooping as he struggles to keep them open.

When Castiel returns with his water thirty seconds later, Dean is stretched out on the too-short couch with his head on one armrest and his feet hanging off the other.  Castiel chuckles to himself and puts the water on the table beside Dean’s head.  He wanders off to mingle, a little drunk and a little stoned and feeling good all over.  There are a couple of people passed out in the floor, a girl curled up in the chair in the corner, and those who are still on their feet are starting to pair up and filter out.  Raphael and Michael are the last to leave, each with a date on his arm.  Castiel is about to thank them for not being dicks to Dean, then decides that he’d regret it to his last breath if he did.

“Good luck,” Michael says cryptically, slapping Castiel on the shoulder as he leaves with a pretty blonde haired girl.

Before Castiel goes to bed, he grabs a couple of spare blankets and spreads one over Dean and the other over the girl in the chair; he briefly considers leaving a note for Dean but the thought of finding a pen and paper seems like too much work, so he just decides to hope that Prince Charming had a good enough time that he’ll stop disappearing after gigs.  He double checks the front door lock and makes sure nothing’s on fire before he heads off to his tiny bedroom and closes the door.

He strips out of his clothes and crawls into bed to stretch out.  His head buzzes happily as he lets out a slow breath that seems to carry the last of his energy along with it.  By the time he’s burrowed under the covers and comfortable, his mind’s eye is filled with Dean’s freckled face and green eyes and the way he catches his tongue between his teeth when he smiles.  Castiel smiles to himself and yawns, pressing the heel of his palm against his cock as it starts to stir with the thought of the bordering-on-obscene way Dean licks his lips.

“Down, boy,” he murmurs sleepily, rubbing his palm up and down the length of his shaft with barely any pressure; just enough to feel good.  With another yawn and a half-hearted stretch, he forgets about his cock and starts to drift.

***

When Castiel awakens, late morning sun is streaming through his bedroom window.  He stretches and rubs his face into the pillow, trying to ignore the dull throb behind behind his eyes.  His cock is hard, leaking where it’s pressed against his belly by the mattress under him.  When he shifts his hips, a shiver of pleasure runs down his spine, followed closely by the urgent shiver and goosebumps that tell him he should probably wait until after he’s taken a piss to jerk off.  After another stretch and another drag of his cock against the sheet, he hisses a breath through his teeth and drags himself out of bed, nearly tripping over last night’s clothes in the process.

His brain is fuzzy with sleep as he wanders out of his bedroom, scratching his bare hip absently and making his way toward the kitchen, intent on getting a drink of water and giving his dick time to chill out so he can actually pee.  The rest of his apartment isn’t as bright as his bedroom, a godsend as the throb in the middle of his head gets more intense.  Castiel rubs his temples as he walks through his chilly apartment.  He’s barely stepped out of the hallway into the living room when he realizes someone is still in his apartment.  Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize in time to retreat and get dressed.

“Cas!”  Dean’s shocked squeak scrambles what coherence Castiel has managed to piece together and leaves him scrambling for something, _anything_ to cover up with.  

“Oh, God,” Castiel groans as he grabs the blanket Dean draped over the arm of the couch and wraps it quickly around himself.  The back of his neck prickles with embarrassment and he feels heat flooding through his cheeks.  “I’m sorry.  _Shit_.”

Dean is sitting on the other end of the couch, staring at Castiel’s now-covered crotch with wide eyes, his plump lips pulled into an “o” of surprise; to Castiel’s surprise, Dean’s cheeks are at least as flushed as his own.  He clutches the blanket around his narrow hips, squeezing the ends tightly as his cock softens more quickly than he would’ve imagined.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Castiel says again, forcing himself to meet Dean’s eyes.  “I just..  You know..  It’s..”  He swallows down his embarrassment and offers an apologetic smile.  “People usually leave as soon as they wake up.  I..  I knew it was late, so I just assumed everyone was gone.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck, the pink in his cheeks deepening to bright red that splotches over his ears and down his neck.  He looks so embarrassed that Castiel wants to pat him on the back or hug him or something to make him feel better, none of which is really an option in his current state of undress.  As Dean mutters his fourth apology, Castiel hitches the blanket up his stomach and sits down on the end of the couch furthest away from Dean.

“I feel like such an idiot,” Dean says, face buried in his hands.

“Nah, man,” Castiel says.  “You didn’t know.”

“Yeah, but _still_ ,” Dean says as he looks up.  “I mean, I woke up and everyone else was gone, so I should’ve..”

“I’m glad you’re here, Dean,” Castiel says, then wonders how the hell it slipped out.  But Dean looks up and smiles tentatively, his face still red under his freckles, giving them a three-dimensional effect Castiel will never be tired of seeing.  Castiel smiles back.  “I’m just going to get dressed and..  Uh..  We can go from there.”

Dean nods and licks his lips slowly, the same way he did last night, and the sight of it makes getting dressed the _last_ thing Castiel wants to do.  He does anyway; after he finally takes a well-deserved piss.

***

They have breakfast in a little cafe down the block from Castiel’s apartment; safe ground after the whole penis-waving-in-the-air debacle that started the morning.  There’s no one else around and the inattentive waitress leaves Dean and Castiel alone in their booth in the back corner to talk while they wait for their food.

“I stayed to tell you thank you,” Dean says, staring down into his coffee cup.  “Last night was great and I kinda passed out before I got a chance to tell you.”

“Dude,” Castiel says with a grin, “I went to get water and when I came back you were out cold.”

Dean looks up sheepishly and nods; before he says anything he takes a careful drink of his sugar-laden coffee.  “I remember.  I was so sleepy all the sudden that I couldn’t stay awake any longer.”

“Pot has that effect sometimes,” Castiel answers, tilting his head as he studies Dean’s face.  Dean stares deliberately at his coffee.  “You’ve never smoked pot before, have you?”

“Once.”  Dean chuckles and shrugs one shoulder, then looks up.  “My first girlfriend wanted me to, so I did.  It was okay.”

“Was last night ‘okay’?” 

“Last night was better than okay.”  

Castiel’s stomach does another weird little flip, the same one it always seems to do when Dean is around, but before he can say anything else, the waitress shows up with two plates full of pancakes.  They spend the rest of breakfast talking about music and interesting places around New York that Dean has visited or could visit.   After lingering over so many cups of coffee the waitress finally stops coming to see if they need more, Castiel pays for breakfast.  Dean protests, but Castiel laughs it off and tells him that it’s repayment for being forced to see his dick first thing in the morning.

Dean blushes and stutters something about how “it wasn’t that bad” then blushes harder; Castiel laughs so hard the waitress gives him a _very_ stern look as she takes his money.  They linger on the sidewalk outside the cafe, neither man in all that big a hurry to part company.  Dean has said that he needs to go because he’s got things to do at least seven times when Castiel finally decides that recklessness has worked for him so far and rushes in with a little more.

“We’re practicing this afternoon,” he tells Dean.  “You should come watch us.”

“Really?”  Dean asks, his face lighting up at the suggestion.  “That would be _awesome_ , Cas.  Would the other guys be okay?”

“It’s my band,” Castiel says cockily, then laughs at himself for saying it.  He doesn’t miss the shortening of his name, pleased by the way it rolls off Dean’s tongue.  “Nah, they won’t care.  We have people drop in sometimes and no one ever cares.”

After he’s given directions to the band’s practice space, he finally feels as though this won’t be the last time he sees Dean Winchester.  Still, it doesn’t stop him from looking back over his shoulder as he turns the corner, just to make sure Dean is real.  He is; he’s standing in the same place, staring after Castiel with a smile on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There's some pretty strong internalized homophobia in this chapter (Dean)._

Dean leaves work a half-hour early - after getting there two hours late - so he can be sure to show up to the band’s practice space at exactly the time Castiel gave him.  It’s a rundown building in a neighborhood that puts Dean on high alert.  Even though it’s the middle of the afternoon, he has a sneaking suspicion it’s not the kind of place a guy like him wants to mosey through.  Punks and scrawny teenage beggars litter the sidewalks and the front steps of the tightly spaced buildings; Dean clutches the directions Cas wrote in one hand and lifts his chin, clenching his jaw and ignoring catcalls about his “pretty lips” and “sweet ass”.

He’s thankful when he makes it to the three-story red brick building in one piece.  After he ducks in through the unlocked door, he leans back against it and lets his fear subside and his knees shake for a moment while he catches his breath.  Once he gets out of the entryway and starts to look around, he realizes he’s in some sort of converted office space; the remnant desks and chairs are piled outside closed doors that do little to stop him from hearing the discordant music behind them.  Dean takes a deep breath and lets the music wash over him and wash away his worries about the neighborhood and the _really_ big guy who offered to show him what his own lips were good for.

The stairs are at the far end of the hallway and once he makes it there, the spring is back in his step, along with the little nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach.  He doesn’t want to be attracted to Castiel - or any guy, for that matter - but, he is completely and unmistakably smitten.  He wants to think Cas shares his interest, but he’s learned the hard way not to assume.  Dean takes the steps two at a time to the second floor, then wanders back down the hallway toward the front of the building, looking for the right room.  He knows instantly when he finds it; if he didn’t recognize the song seeping around the edges of the door, the ‘LINEAR LIME FORTRESS’spray-painted in fluorescent green across it would have tipped him off.

Nobody answers the door when Dean knocks, so he waits a couple of minutes, shifting from one foot to the other, then tests the door handle.  The door swings open in front of him and he’s hit with the full force of the music.  It echoes through the space his lungs were supposed to have been occupying and rattles his brain inside his skull.  The room has a makeshift stage and a couple of filthy, ripped floral-print couches and bright orange shag carpet that have definitely seen better days.  The walls are spray-painted with lyrics and grotesque dicks and symbols Dean doesn’t understand in clashing colors, but he still finds himself grinning.

Castiel is on his knees on the stage, his slim body bowed out as he sings, sweat running over the contours of his ribs and down his stomach.  Dean stops two steps inside the door and stares at the long expanse of pale skin that is Castiel’s torso, swallowing hard as he wonders how Castiel’s sweaty skin tastes.  He’s licking his lips just as Castiel rights himself, his eyes immediately finding Dean’s across the long room.  He never misses a word, the microphone clenched in two angry fists as he screams about corruption in the record industry and unfaithful lovers in the same breath, his half-lidded gaze never leaving Dean’s face.

When Michael has played his last chord and Raphael’s thumping on the high hat fades to an echo in Dean’s head, Castiel is still staring at him.  Dean feels warmth creeping up the back of his neck and he sucks a quick breath to try to steady his heart since it apparently hasn’t noticed there’s no music to race in time with anymore.  He feels lightheaded, his stomach buzzing with excess energy that stems from the mental image of bite marks all over Castiel’s pale skin. That’s when Dean knows beyond a shadow of doubt he’s so incredibly fucked; it’s also when he knows he doesn’t care.

“You sound great,” Dean says.  He finally tears his eyes away from Castiel’s sweat-drenched face and blinks before he offers a smile to Michael and Raphael.  “All of you, I mean.  You all sound great.  Your _band_ sounds great.”

“You should quit while you’re ahead, kid,” Michael says, snorting with laughter.  Dean bristles at being called a kid by someone who _can’t_ be older than twenty.

“Is this yer farm boy?”  Raphael puts a pronounced southern drawl on each word and Dean itches to tell him that Kansas is _not_ the south; only angry that he feels like he needs to _defend_ the place he hates so much from such an insult.  He bites his tongue, though, as Castiel crawls to the front of the stage and lets his legs hang over.  His feet almost touch the floor.

“Lay off,” Castiel says, pulling a bandana out of his back pocket to wipe his face.  Dean is on the edge of breaking out his smuggest smile when Castiel looks over his shoulder with a smirk and adds, “He had to see my dick this morning.  It was traumatic for us both.”

Raphael and Michael guffaw; Castiel gives him a wink; Dean wants to sink into the ugly orange carpet and never climb out.

“Don’t he know there are plenty of pretty boys who’d pay good money to see your dick, boss?”

Dean glares at Michael, his cheeks on fire with embarrassment.

“Ain’t even _much_ of one,” Raphael adds, standing up from behind his bass drum.  “If you wanna see a _real_ dick, farm boy..”

Dean transfers the glare to him, equally horrified and fascinated by their lack of..  civilization.  Castiel grabs his attention, however, as he swings his legs and pushes himself gracefully off the edge of the stage.  His tight jeans are tucked into his big, unlaced boots, his upper body still bare and shining with sweat as he swaggers toward Dean.

“You just have to ignore them.  They weren’t raised in captivity,” he says sympathetically, reaching out to turn Dean toward the door.  He drapes his arm casually around Dean’s shoulders, his sweaty body dragging against Dean’s side as they squeeze through the doorway.  Dean is so busy thinking about the smell of sweat and leather and musk that he’s perfectly willing to ignore Raphael’s neighing and Michael’s mooing in response to Castiel’s dig.

They’re halfway down the hall before Castiel peels himself off Dean and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed.  Just before they hit the stairs, he asks, “Where are we going?”

“Water fountain’s upstairs and I’m thirsty,” Cas answers with a half shrug.  “Didn’t figure you wanted me to leave you alone with them.”

“No,” Dean says quickly, shaking his head emphatically.  

Castiel laughs and shoves his hair out of his face as he starts up the steps.  He trudges slowly; one at a time with bootlaces flopping and Dean takes the opportunity to admire him from behind.  He’s thin, his ribs well-defined under his skin and each notch of his spine visible.  Dean nearly trips over the first stop because he’s busy staring at the way Castiel’s hips swing in counterpoint to his surprisingly wide shoulders.  As beautiful as he is from the front, the wriggle of his slim hips in tight jeans is just as great from the back.

“They’re not so bad,” Castiel says, pausing halfway up the flight of stairs.  Dean nearly falls down them in a panic at the unexpected voice.

“Who?”  He closes his eyes and bites back a curse the second it’s out of his mouth.  Who the hell _else_ would Castiel be saying that about?

“Mike and Raffy,”  Castiel clarifies.  Dean snorts derisively.  Castiel laughs again and half-turns so he can look at Dean.  “They aren’t, Dean.  They were just teasing because it made you blush.  They didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You didn’t _have_ to tell them,” Dean says petulantly and Castiel’s smile fades.  He shrugs and turns around to head back up the steps.

“Sorry,” Cas says, his tone clipped.  “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive about dicks.”

“It’s not like that,” Dean says to Castiel’s back as he tops the stairs.  

“Then what _is_ it like _?”_

_It’s like_ ** _every_** _joke a guy makes at my expense has something to do with someone’s dick,_ Dean thinks.  _It’s like people calling me a fag when I was thirteen-years-old because I was too pretty to be straight.  It’s like one too many drunk rednecks telling me I’ve got the best cocksucking lips they’ve ever seen and offering their own cock to prove it to me._

“It’s nothing,” he says with an irritated shrug.  The rest of the trek to the water fountain and back is in tense silence.  Dean considers just saying fuck it and going home, then he remembers the gauntlet of assholes out there who’re both ready and willing to say much worse things to him; so he sinks down on the less suspicious looking of the two floral couches and stretches his legs out in front of him while Castiel crawls back up on the stage and consults his bandmates about which song they’ll play next.

Dean tries to stay angry, but the next song is his favorite and the sight of Castiel bouncing across the stage, his hair flying wildly as he sings about classism and the struggle to be free from an oppressive father lets Dean’s bad mood slide off like it was nothing.  Before he knows it, he’s on his feet, standing in the middle of the room, grinning and watching Raphael go at his drums like there’s no tomorrow while Castiel and Michael jump by one another in either well-choreographed or incredibly lucky passes without knocking one another out.  When the song ends, Castiel wipes his face on his forearm and meets Dean’s gaze.

He smiles and Dean smiles, too, before Raphael counts out the intro to their next song.

***

By the time Castiel invites Dean to get some grub with the band, he has forgotten he was ever angry.  He tries to turn down the offer, but Michael and Raphael threaten to drag him along bodily if he doesn’t change his mind.  The trip back through the shady neighborhood surrounded by three men who look a lot tougher than Dean is _much_ less harrowing.  No one says anything to him, in fact.  They’ve been walking for two blocks when Castiel slings his arm around Dean’s shoulder and falls into step with him.  The others either don’t notice or don’t care and within another half a block, Dean’s blush has subsided.

Castiel is warm, his hip bumping against Dean’s every few steps while the three bandmates bicker playfully about where they should get dinner.  It’s Michael who finally asks Dean where _he_ wants to eat.  Dean claims ignorance; Raphael calls him a “hick from the sticks”; Michael laughs so hard he nearly falls over; and Castiel squeezes Dean a little tighter and whispers a conspiratorial: “Vito’s pizza.”

“Vito’s pizza,” Dean parrots with as much certainty as he can muster.

“Fuck no,” Raphael and Michael growl in unison.  

Raphael adds, “It ain’t nice to take advantage of foreigners, man.”

They end up at Vito’s since it has two votes.  Three bites into his first slice, Dean understands why the other two didn’t want to eat here; he _doesn’t_ understand the blissful smile on Castiel’s face as he launches himself with gusto into his second piece.  It doesn’t matter that the pizza tastes like plywood covered in cat urine and left to bake in the summer sun, though, because half a pitcher of beer and some gentle ribbing about his accent into the meal, Dean feels like he’s found people who actually _like him_ for the first time since he got to New York City.  It doesn’t hurt anything that Cas keeps reaching out to touch his forearm or that his knee keeps brushing Castiel’s accidentally.

After dinner, they finally part company.  Michael and Raphael head off in one direction toward the apartment they share, Castiel and Dean head off in the opposite direction.  They walk together until it’s time for Castiel to split off to his own apartment, but both men stall at the crosswalk, just as they did in front of the cafe.  Dean’s heart is racing again, his palms sweating nervously.  He wants to ask Castiel if he’d like to hang out again, but he can’t bring himself to.  Castiel lingers, talking about the show that’s coming up in two days.

“You can come at seven-thirty and help me load in,” Castiel finally says, his voice pulled nervously thin.  “If you want to.  I’ll buy you a beer.”

“It’s a deal,” Dean answers instantly.  

“I’ll..  Uh..  I’ll see you then.”  Castiel smiles and swallows and shoves his hands in his pockets.  His eyes narrow slightly as he watches Dean lick his lips then he nods for no apparent reason and repeats, “I’ll see you then.”

Castiel’s head is down as he turns and walks away, his fitted leather jacket clinging to his shoulders and his boot laces still flopping.  Dean watches him go, his belly twisted up tight with the desire to hold on to the evening just a little longer.  Before Castiel crosses the street, he looks back over his shoulder and catches Dean still watching him and Dean sees his smile as he turns around and keeps walking.  Dean’s heart clenches and he lets out a slow breath before pulling his own jacket tighter around himself and heading the block and a half up the street to his apartment.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warning for shotgunning weed in this chapter._

Dean’s stomach does nervous acrobatics as he gets dressed to see Castiel again.  He studies himself in the mirror over the dresser in his rented bedroom and wishes for the first time in his life that he owned a pair of ripped jeans and a leather jacket.  He tries to remind himself that it doesn’t matter; that even if Castiel _does_ swing that way, Dean is definitely _not_ his type.  The pep talk, strangely, doesn’t make him feel any better.  Dean finally settles on his most comfortable pair of faded blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt that he knows makes his eyes look even greener.  He takes one last look in the mirror and flattens down his short hair before pronouncing himself good to go.  As an afterthought, he pulls on a worn red flannel shirt, intent on ignoring the fact that it’s only fashionable for lumberjacks.

The walk to the bar takes less than fifteen minutes; it’s a good thing since one more minute alone with the cynical voice in his head and Dean would have found a way to strangle it.  He finds Castiel in the alley by the back door, leaned against a beat-up black cargo van smoking.  The back doors of the van are open and Dean can see beat up black metal boxes of various sizes stacked together impossibly tight.  He clears his throat as he approaches Castiel, his stomach back to its high wire antics.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, looking Dean’s way to take another drag of his cigarette.

“Hey, Cas,”  Dean says, swallowing down the flutter in his chest when Castiel tilts his head back, baring the long line of his throat as he exhales.  He looks into the back of the van again and now that he’s closer, he sees the faintly stenciled “Linear Lime Fortress” on some of the boxes.  Dean glances at Castiel again just in time to see him crushing the butt of his finished cigarette into the pavement with the heel of his boot; Cas looks up, his blue eyes bright in the late evening sun and Dean smiles sheepishly and admits, “I’m not sure what ‘load in’actually means.”

“It means that all these boxes,” Castiel says as he points at the boxes in the back of the van, then to the back door of the bar, “need to go through that door.”

“Shouldn’t Michael and Raphael be here to help, too?”  Dean is already reaching for a small box at the top of the stack when he asks; he’s certainly not averse to hard work though it seems a little weird that Castiel would want to do it alone.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”  Castiel laughs as he says it, then shrugs his shoulders and reaches for another small box.  Dean follows him into the tiny room behind the stage, feeling as though he’s doing something illicit just by being there.  Working together, it only takes them twenty minutes to unload all the boxes.  Once they’ve dragged them all onto the stage; Castiel disappears, only to reappear a moment later with two beers.

“I’m a man of my word,” Cas says with a smile.

“I see that,” Dean says, smiling back as he takes his well-earned beer, fingertips brushing Castiel’s in the process.  He watches curiously as Castiel begins to open the boxes methodically, baring Raphael’s drums and various tangled wires and amplifiers.  Dean gestures to the box full of tangled wires.  “Want me to help with those?”

Castiel looks up and blinks owlishly as though he’d forgotten Dean was standing beside him, then looks toward the box Dean is pointing at.  He nods and offers a lopsided smile, “That’s Michael’s mess, but if you have the patience to fuck with it, go ahead.  I always leave it for him.”

“I don’t mind,” Dean says.  He chuckles and kneels beside Castiel, taking another swallow of beer and putting it carefully out of the way as he pulls the tangled mess out of the box.  Years of working on cars beside his dad have given him endless patience for detail work and he quickly loses himself so deeply in it that he almost stops noticing the way Castiel’s shoulder presses against his from time to time.  Almost.

By the time Raphael and Michael finally show up, Dean and Castiel have everything set up and waiting.  When Michael sees that there are no wires to untangle, he beams at Castiel and slaps Dean on the back in thanks.  Dean laughs when Raphael proposes the band keep him around for stuff they don’t want to do; Castiel elbows Dean and winks when he proposes they keep him around for _other_ reasons; Dean blushes and nearly melts into the scuffed plywood floor.  Michael invites Dean to watch the show from the tiny room beside the stage, so he does.  The band is loud - and great - as always, and Dean has to caution himself against taking it to heart when Castiel glances his way and smiles.

*** 

“Do you need help getting packed up?”  Dean tries to keep the eagerness out of his voice as the band bounces off the stage toward him to the screams of “fuck yeah” and “one more” from the crowd.

“Yes!”  Michael says.  Castiel shoots him a dirty look and wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You’ve done _plenty_ ,” Cas tells Dean, staring at Michael while he says it.  Raphael laughs and hip-checks Michael, mouthing the same words, but Dean barely notices because Castiel’s sweaty body is pressed the length of his own, damp clothes dragging against Dean’s.  Michael grumbles something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like “go fuck yourself” but he offers a brilliant smile and shrugs it off, turning to ostensibly go start packing up his gear.

“Are you coming to my apartment tonight?”  Castiel is looking at Dean now, smiling and wiping his face with his ever-present bandana.  

“Sure,” Dean says.  “Yeah, if you want me to.”

“Fantastic,” Castiel says as he peels their bodies apart. “In about an hour or so, yeah?”

Dean has barely had time to nod when Castiel turns and walks away, effectively dismissing him.  The second Cas gets back on stage, there’s a redheaded woman - a bartender, Dean thinks - right up against him.  Castiel smiles down at her and Dean feels something ugly twist in his guts.  He turns around to find Raphael standing behind him with a smile that’s a little _too_ benevolent.

“You seem like a nice kid,” Raphael says, “so I’m gonna give you some advice.”

“I’m _not_ a kid,” Dean growls, throwing his chest out.  “And I don’t _need_ your advice.”

“ _Yes_ , you do,” Raphael answers, his smile suddenly gone as he steps uncomfortably close to Dean.  Dean has no time to react before Raphael continues, his words hard edged. “Castiel ain’t gonna be your boyfriend. You’re his fuck of the week, if you’re lucky and then he’ll forget about you.  Screw him if that’s what turns your crank, but don’t think he’s gonna stick around just ‘cause you’re so pretty.”

As soon as the last word is out of his mouth, Raphael brushes past Dean, leaving him standing with his mouth half-open in shocked silence.  All the things he can think of to say in return die on the tip of his tongue as he tries to process the information.

***

Dean is still reeling when he gets to Castiel’s apartment building an hour and a half later.  If he’d ever thought that knowing Cas did indeed swing his way, that idea was shattered with Raphael’s helpful _advice_.  In a way, he’s glad he’s not walking into anything blind; in a much bigger way, he’s furious with himself for being so transparent and for ever having thought this could be different.  “ _Because you’re so pretty_ ” rings in his head with each step up the five flights of stairs.  Dean pauses in front of Castiel’s apartment door and stares at the chipping white paint and the crooked metal “8A” nailed in the center of it.  

He wants to go home and forget he ever met Castiel, but that hardly seems a viable option, so he knocks on the door instead.  Castiel answers before Dean has time to change his mind.  He’s wearing the same tight jeans from the show, but he’s barefoot and shirtless, leaning against the doorframe with a buzzed smile.  He’s also _alone_.  

“Where’s the party?”  Dean’s stomach flips and his mouth goes dry when Cas swallows and cranes his head to look behind him into the empty living room.  He turns back to Dean and shrugs one shoulder slowly before stepping back and pushing the door open further.

“No party here tonight except me ’n you,” Cas says, walking away from the door.  “Does that disappoint you?”

“No,” Dean says without hesitation and his stomach does another flip as he watches the sway of Castiel’s hips; the overwhelming aroma of marijuana fills his nostrils as he steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him.  Castiel is sitting in the middle of the couch, reaching for the joint still in the ashtray on the table at the end.  He doesn’t look up when he tells Dean to lock the door.

“Smoke with me?”  Castiel’s words are a low buzz that slide down Dean’s spine and twist around his tailbone as he takes a seat on the couch beside Cas.  He reaches for the joint, but Cas just smiles and shakes his head, then takes a long toke, reaching for Dean with his free hand.   Castiel tangles a fist in Dean’s flannel shirt and pulls him forward, still holding the smoke in his lungs.  It takes a moment for Dean to understand what Cas wants, but the second he does, chills of anticipation chase one another down his arms and he allows himself to be pulled to straddle Castiel’s lap.

Raphael’s warning bounces around inside Dean’s head like a warning klaxon, but he ignores it.  Instead, he lifts a trembling hand to the side of Castiel’s neck, looks down into his red-rimmed eyes, and leans forward with his lips pursed and his head tilted.  _Thank God his last girlfriend dragged him to parties where there was weed._   A little approving noise rumbles in Castiel’s chest as he leans up until his lips almost touch Dean’s, letting the first tendril of smoke slip.  Dean inhales slowly, fingers clenching against the side of Castiel’s neck as he fights down the urge to cough when the unaccustomed smoke tickles, then burns, his lungs.

He inhales until he’s dizzy and his chest is tight, sucking the smoke as Castiel feeds it to him and enjoying the way Castiel’s free hand kneads at his thigh more than he probably should.  When his lungs are full, he pulls his head away, swallowing and swallowing to fight off the way they ache.

“Hold this,” Castiel rasps, licking his chapped lips and giving the joint to Dean.  Dean’s head spins with the need to breathe as Castiel makes quick work of his flannel over-shirt, pausing to take the joint back so Dean can pull it over his hand.  Dean exhales what little smoke is left and sucks in a lungful of chilly air before he finally starts to cough.  A moment later, once his lungs have stopped burning, Dean strips out of his t-shirt and takes the roach from between Castiel’s fingers.

“My turn.”

Castiel leans his head back against the couch, eyes half closed as he watches Dean take a hit.  HIs hands slide up Dean’s thighs to his hips, squeezing and kneading before his fingertips trail up Dean’s sides and back down again.  Dean fills his lungs and stretches to the table beside the couch to deposit what’s left of the joint in the ashtray.  When he rights himself, Castiel’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth and his eyes are closed.  Dean’s stomach squirms as he swallows to keep another cough at bay; this time he takes Castiel’s face in both hands.  Castiel smiles and licks his lips slowly, opening his eyes as Dean leans in closer.

Dean looks into Castiel’s glassy blue eyes as he starts to exhale, his insides buzzing with nerves and want and a thousand other things he can’t put a name to;  Castiel’s palms slip slowly up Dean’s back before he drags his nails down even more slowly and makes Dean shiver and forget he was supposed to be exhaling slowly.  He blows out the smoke in one quick huff and Castiel gives a lazy chuckle, losing what little smoke he managed to take.   

It doesn’t matter though, because Castiel’s hands are curled over the tops of Dean’s shoulders pulling him downward and Dean is pushing the pads of his thumbs against the barely-there stubble on the underside of Castiel’s jaw and their bodies are pressed together, warm and a little sweaty already.  Dean’s cock is getting harder by the second and he no longer hears anything inside his head but a steady buzz of pleasure and Castiel’s hitched breaths and pleased sighs.

“You’re warm,” Castiel murmurs against Dean’s throat, his fingers splayed as he strokes over the wings of Dean’s shoulder blades and down his back again.  Dean smiles and arches forward, pressing the softness of his belly more tightly against Castiel’s skinny body.  Cas hums and rubs one hand up Dean’s spine until his fingers can tease at the back of Dean’s neck; he scratches at Dean’s hairline as Dean’s hands slide across his shoulders.

“Kiss me,” Dean says, his voice trembling.  Castiel opens his eyes, wide and blue and guileless; the long hair on the top of his head tangled and falling halfway in his face.  Dean licks his lips, shifting to ease the pressure his jeans are exerting on his cock and says, “ _Kiss_ me, Cas.”

A warm, sour breath over Dean’s lips is all the warning he gets that Castiel is going to do it.  Their lips press together, sweet then hard then Castiel’s tongue is dipping into Dean’s mouth, licking at the line of his teeth.  Dean groans, rolling his hips forward and grinding downward against Castiel’s erection.  Cas moans into his mouth and grabs at Dean’s hips to still him.  They pass kiss after kiss back and forth, learning the angles and curves that lie within the other’s mouth and gasping ragged breaths when their heads get too far into the clouds.

Every time Dean tries to roll his hips, tries to grind against Castiel’s obviously hard dick, Cas stops him with firm but gentle pressure.  Sweat beads on the back of Dean’s neck as Castiel’s fingers skate over his sides and up and down his back in slow, lazy patterns.  He surges forward, kisses Castiel until they’re both breathless and offering one another tiny, choked, desperate noises; still Castiel won’t let him grind.  Dean’s hands return to the sides of Castiel’s neck and he tilts his own head back, the effects of the weed starting to make him feel buzzed to the ends of his fingers.

Castiel’s lips close on Dean’s neck, sucking gently, teeth scraping and the flat of his tongue pressing before he moves to the next spot.  Dean whimpers unintentionally and Castiel whispers “yeah” and goes right back to kissing Dean’s neck and Dean forgets all about how hard his dick is because Castiel is overloading all his senses at once.

“You wanna light the other joint?”  Castiel’s voice is a rough burr just under Dean’s earlobe.  Dean shivers and murmurs a hoarse “sure” and stretches to get both it and the lighter.  

By the time the joint has burned down to a roach, Dean’s eyelids are heavy and he’s starting to yawn; he’s thankful that his dick has settled into perpetual half-hardness that he doesn’t _have_ to do anything about.  His body is sweaty-sticky against Castiel’s and the drag feels nice, so do Castiel’s gentle caresses.  When Dean yawns for the fifth time, Castiel waits for him to finish and kisses him again, slow and deep until Dean’s toes are curling and he’s got his fingers tangled in the long hair at the base of Castiel’s skull, tugging little moans that he can swallow.

“Do you want me to go home?”   Dean asks when they finally pull apart.

“Nah,” Castiel answers with a lazy smile.  “You can stay.”

“Good, “ Dean answers, feeling equally lazy.  He runs the pad of his thumb over Cas’kiss-plumped lower lip, leaning in for another kiss as he says, “I think I’m too stoned to walk home.”

Castiel laughs into the kiss, wrapping his arms tightly around Dean’s body and squeezing.  When he pulls away, he licks his lips and teases, “Lightweight.”

They somehow manage to get stretched out on the couch before they fall asleep, Dean’s back pressed to Castiel’s chest and their legs completely tangled.  Dean’s chest feels warm and tight and the last thing he hears are Castiel’s soft snores to drown out the low rumble of Raphael’s warning trying to make itself heard again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Verbal and minor physical altercations in this chapter, proceed with caution if that's triggering for you. <3 _

The first thing that registers on Castiel’s radar when consciousness starts to creep in around the edges is that his throat aches and his head feels _heavy_ ; full of packed cotton and iron bolts.  The next thing he notices is Dean Winchester’s head tucked under his chin; their bodies pressed chest-to-chest.  He yawns and reaches up with the hand that’s _not_ pinned under Dean’s still sleeping body to rub the sleep from his eyes, then presses himself more firmly against the back of the couch so he can see Dean’s face and after a moment’s thought he could _swear_ Dean was facing the other way when they fell asleep.

Castiel lets his palm slide gently against Dean’s cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing over the sweep of his high cheekbone.  So close up, Dean’s freckles are like constellations scattered by the hand of God himself, his eyelashes nothing more than dark smudges hiding the beautiful green that lies beneath.  Castiel’s breath catches and he smiles  as he runs his thumb down the line of Dean’s nose, memorizes the freckles he crosses.  _Beautiful_ , Castiel thinks.  That’s the only word to describe such perfect symmetry.

He’s still watching Dean’s face when the trace of his fingertips over the curve of Dean’s ear finally rouses him.  Dean groans and shivers against Castiel, he mumbles something Castiel can’t quite make out and then yawns.  It’s all Castiel can do not to laugh, afraid to disturb the quiet moment since it’s not every day he wakes up next to someone he _wants_ to wake up next to, crowded conditions of the too-small couch aside.  When Dean finally opens his eyes a couple of minutes later, they’re still red-rimmed from last night’s weed, which only sets off the glass-shard green in the light from the lamp they forgot to turn off.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, his voice sleep-rough as he blinks a few more times, long lashes dipping in a way that _shouldn’t_ be seductive, but definitely _is_ every time.

“Morning,” Castiel answers with a pleased smile.  His stomach wriggles with greater pleasure when Dean slides up the couch until they’re face to face.  His lips are warm and soft when they press against Castiel’s.  It’s nice, Castiel thinks, first-thing-in-the-morning-kisses tinged with the earthiness of weed and morning breath.  _Nice_ is new and different and not something Castiel even knew he wanted before Dean approached him in the alley, shy confidence and nervous forwardness rolled into one tightly packed farm boy from Kansas.  Castiel smiles, letting his lips linger against Dean’s as the heel of his palm once more comes to rest against Dean’s jaw.

“What?”  Dean asks, pulling away with a smile of his own.

Castiel opens his eyes and finds himself looking into half-lidded, sparkling green eyes; the kind of eyes that wear Dean’s smile just as readily as his lips.  He brushes the pad of his thumb over the sweep of Dean’s cheekbone again, this time looking into his eyes as he does so.  Dean’s smile widens when Castiel’s thumb comes to rest in the center of his bottom lip, his eyes opening wider as he waits to find out what’s so funny.

“You are _beautiful_ , Dean Winchester,” Castiel says quietly, his heart thumping in his chest with the admission.  “You have such delicate features and sweet lips.”

Dean’s smile fades with each word; his face a mask of hard-lined anger by the time Castiel finishes.  It’s the same look Dean wore on the staircase at the practice studio, the same cold fury that twisted Castiel’s guts into a nervous knot and sent him storming away in confusion.  This time it’s Dean who storms away; rather he scrambles to his feet, the softness in his body gone in favor of tensed muscles as he rights himself and reaches for his discarded t-shirt.

“I guess Raphael was right,” Dean says, each word hurled at Castiel.  As soon as his head pops out of his t-shirt, he glares daggers, his cheeks turning pink.  “I should’ve known you’d be no different.”

Castiel is still lying in stunned silence on the couch when Dean makes his grand exit from the apartment, slamming the door so hard that it rattles the window on the opposite wall.  By the time he makes it to his feet, righteous indignation has risen in his chest, curling around his throat so tightly it’s hard to breathe as he tries to fathom how anything he said could have _possibly_ been worthy of such anger.  He turns away from the front door and without a second thought, grabs the ashtray off the rickety table at the end of the couch.  Launching it toward the kitchen doorway feels good; the sound of it shattering against the refrigerator that gets in its way feels better.

Castiel stands, staring at the green glass shards on the kitchen floor until his anger passes, it’s replaced by bewilderment as he sinks back to sit in the middle of the couch and try to figure out what the hell just happened.  For _once_ in his life he tried to do things right and not be an emotionless bastard and _this_ is what it earns him. More importantly, Castiel decides as Dean’s words finally sink in, what the fuck does _Raphael_ have to do with anything?

***

“What did you say to Dean?”  Castiel demands angrily as Raphael opens the front door of the apartment he and Michael share.  His eyes widen in surprise as Castiel barges forward, shoving their chests together to knock his taller and more muscular band mate backward.

“Take it easy, boss,” Raphael says, his hand in the middle of Castiel’s chest to put some space between them.

“Tell me what you _said_ ,” Castiel growls.  He shoves Raphael’s hand out of the way and pushes so close their noses almost touch again.

“Maybe if you gave him a _chance_ to tell you,” Michael says as he pushes Castiel and Raphael apart with great effort.

“Stay out of this, Michael,” Castiel spits, elbowing him out of the way.  “It has nothing to do with you.”

He stays where Michael put him, though, a foot away from Raphael and still fuming.  The triumphant smile on Raphael’s face doesn’t help at all.  Castiel’s hands clench into fists at his side as the thought of punching the smile right of his stupid face starts to sound better and better.

“I told him the truth,” Raphael says cryptically.  He shrugs and goes to turn away and something inside Castiel snaps.  

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”  Castiel jumps forward, his arms around Raphael’s shoulders as he tackles him to the apartment floor.  

Before he can do anything more, however, Michael grabs him around the chest and pulls him away shouting, “ _Stop!_ ”

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” Raphael says, laughing as he gets to his feet and brushes imaginary dust off his shoulder.  It’s a good thing Michael is still holding Castiel when Raphael grins and says, “You got it _bad_ for that pretty little farm boy, don’t ya?”

“So what if I do?”  Castiel snarls, struggling to break out of Michael’s hold.  Despite his effort, he makes no headway.

“It never lasts,” Raphael says smugly, stepping closer and looking down at Castiel.  “That’s what I told him.  I told your farm boy that his pretty face wasn’t gonna make you his _boyfriend_ any more than any _other_ pretty face ever did.”

All the fight whooshes out of Castiel as though he’s been punched in the gut by a freight train.  His body sags against Michael’s as tears sting the bridge of his nose.  _No wonder_ Dean had been so angry at being called beautiful is all Castiel can think.  He stares unseeing at Raphael’s smirk; the second Michael’s grip loosens, he pulls away and heads out the door without another word, his stomach twisting violently.

Michael catches him on his way down the stairs, stopping Castiel with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey man,” Michael says, his face pulled into a worried mask as he takes on his not-infrequent role of the band’s den mother.  “He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s true,”  Castiel says quietly, hating the sound of the words once they’re out of his head.  “It doesn’t matter if he meant anything or not, Mike.  It’s true.”

“You don’t even _know_ the kid.  He’s just another guy you picked up and fucked,” Michael says, sitting down on the step beside Castiel and pulling him along.  His words are soft, not unkind, but they still knock the breath out of Castiel all over again.  “So why does it matter?”

“I didn’t fuck him,” Castiel says, feeling desperate to make that clear.  “I didn’t.  He came over, and we got high and he _wanted_ to fuck, but we didn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I wanted..”

Castiel trails off, hopelessness settling in the center of his chest like a leaden anchor.  He looks at Michael, imploring him to understand.  Michael’s eyes are wide with surprise as he pats Castiel’s back uncertainly.

“We slept on my couch,” Castiel says, his cheeks warming as he looks down at the dirty concrete step between his black boots. He can’t face looking at the man he’s known since they were five-years-old when he whispers, “He’s different than anyone I’ve known before.  I don’t know why, but I know he is.  I wanted to do it right for once, so I didn’t fuck him.”

After a long silence and more spastic-but-gentle consoling pats between Castiel's shoulder blades, Michael says, “I guess you found Prince Charming.”

“Yeah,” Castiel agrees glumly as he reaches into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and lighter.  “And he hates my fucking guts.”

***

Castiel is bitterly disappointed when Dean doesn’t show up for the band’s next gig, though he’s hardly surprised.  He goes through the motions, focusing on the importance of the band’s message as he feels more and more passionate about how fucked up the world is and the path the government _should_ be taking to right it.  Days stretch into weeks and the hole inside Castiel gets a little bigger every time he doesn’t see Dean’s face in front of the stage.  He wants nothing more than to try to set things right, even if it means Prince Charming walks away with the whole picture, but he doesn’t even know where Dean lives.

Two shows a week at the bar turn into four and Castiel finds himself spinning in a haze of adrenaline and exhaustion, fueled by too much beer and pot.  It seems as though he’s just crawling into bed - always alone - when it’s time to get up and do it all over again.  It’s been two months since Dean stormed out of his apartment when Castiel can finally bring himself to move the flannel shirt he left hanging over the arm of the couch.  When he grabs the soft fabric and lifts it, a folded piece of paper falls out of the breast pocket and flutters to the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There's past abuse mention and some pretty severe internalized homophobia (Dean) at the first of this chapter. Again, proceed with caution. <3 _

When Dean left Castiel’s apartment, slamming the door so hard it jarred his teeth as he exited, he’d felt good; powerful.  He’d felt for the first time in his life like he stood up to some asshole for insinuating things that weren’t true just because he was _pretty_.  His elation didn’t last.  A day and a half later, he remembered the awe on Castiel’s face when he said it, the joy shining in the blue of Castiel’s eyes as though Dean was a marble statue he felt honored to touch.  Three days after that, he realized that it was Castiel who kept them from having sex; it was Castiel’s strong hands on Dean’s hips holding him still while they kissed and touched one another.  It was Cas who gathered him up to sleep and woke him up with a smile.  _Contrary_ to Raphael’s prediction, nothing had happened.

By then, of course, it was too late to go back to Castiel’s apartment and try to set things straight.  Dean planned to try to catch up with him at Linear Lime Fortress’next show and try to fix what he’d fucked up, but then he’d had to stay late at the body shop he worked at and he missed the gig completely.  Their next show had been the following week and that would _definitely_ be too late, so Dean gave up.  He went to work and he went home and he felt the hole in his chest growing bigger and bigger, but as days turned into weeks, he just couldn’t bring himself to face Castiel and explain his anger, or even apologize.  

He didn’t even _really_ know Cas; how could Dean possibly tell him about all the men who’d called him pretty as a taunt or, worse, a threat?  How could he tell a virtual stranger about the night his own father beat him and told him that no pretty little faggot would live under _his_ roof?  He couldn’t.  So he didn’t.

***

Almost two months to the day after Dean walked out of Castiel’s apartment, he’s lying on his bed reading _The Fountains of Paradise_ when there’s a knock on his bedroom door.  He hasn’t had time to respond when the door cracks open enough for his petite, elderly landlady to poke her white-haired head in and tell him, “One of your _friends_ is downstairs and I don’t like the look of him one bit.”

“One of my friends?”  Dean blinks and puts the book aside as he swings his legs off the bed.  Only one of his friends knows where he lives and he’s only visited Dean once, months ago.  Dean follows the old woman down the hallway to the stairs, amused by her look of consternation, still racking his brain to think of who might be waiting.  They’re halfway down the long, wooden staircase when the narrow house’s entryway becomes visible.

Dean’s heart leaps into his throat with a terrified flutter when he sees Castiel standing in front of the front door, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and running his fingers through his long hair.  From his free hand hangs Dean’s red flannel shirt and Dean swallows hard to try to quash the excitement suddenly zipping around in his chest like a thousand dragonflies.  Castiel looks up the stairs in front of him when they’re nearly to the bottom.  His eyes lock on Dean’s and he offers a tentative smile.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, his voice only slightly more confident than his smile.

“Hey,” Dean says simply.  His landlady looks over her shoulder at him with narrowed eyes and Dean smiles and tells her, “He’s all right, Mrs. Anderson.  You don’t have to worry.”

With a quiet “hmph,” Mrs. Anderson makes her way back into the sitting room, staring at the leather jacket-clad punk standing in her sedate entryway suspiciously.  When she has retaken her familiar seat in front of the big, console TV in the corner of the room, Dean gestures up the stairs.  Castiel nods and looks toward the sitting room before following Dean up.

“How did you find me?”  Dean asks as Castiel closes the bedroom door behind them.  Dean takes a seat on the edge of the tall bed; Castiel pulls up the wooden dining chair from the corner of the room and sits in front of him.

“You left this,” Cas says, offering Dean the flannel shirt.  “When I moved it this morning, this fell out of the pocket.”

Dean takes the shirt and the piece of paper from Castiel, a shiver running down his spine as their fingertips brush.  The paper is a handwritten rent receipt from his overly cautious landlady downstairs and Dean can’t help grinning.  He _had_ paid his rent on his way out the door that evening and he’d stood impatiently waiting for her to write out the receipt in her careful script, worried he was going to be late to help Castiel load in because of her desire for exactness.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says when Dean looks back up.  “For what happened.”

“Why are _you_ apologizing?”  Confusion settles into Dean’s flip-flopping stomach and he shakes his head, frowning.  Castiel’s face tightens and he runs his fingers through his hair again.  The worry in his face only eases a little when Dean adds, “I was the one who threw a temper tantrum because you said I was _beautiful_ , if we’re talking about the same ‘what happened’.”

Dean’s ears burn with the memory of stomping out of Castiel’s apartment like a spoiled teenager over something so utterly ridiculous, he swallows hard and meets Castiel’s gaze to find a look of guarded optimism staring back at him.  Castiel rubs his palms against the worn denim on his thighs and shifts as though trying to figure out what to say next.  The moment feels so delicate that Dean’s afraid to breathe for fear he’ll fuck something up again.  Castiel stands up slowly and closes the step between them, standing between Dean’s knees and taking his face in both hands.

“I’m sorry for what Raphael said to you,” Castiel says softly, the pads of his thumbs tracing over Dean’s cheekbones, “and I’m sorry that if you were anyone else, he would’ve been right.  I’m sorry that I haven’t always been a person who’s worth a guy like you and I’m sorry you had to pay for the person I used to be.  I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner and I’m sorry that there is something so terrible in the world that you can’t hear that you’re beautiful without getting angry.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean whispers. He swallows down the sudden lump in his throat, the corners of his eyes burning with tears as Castiel’s fingertips trail down the curve of his jaw and his thumbs ghost over his lips.  Castiel’s blue eyes are shining wetly with unshed tears as he leans down closer; Dean’s heart races, thumping painfully behind his breastbone as Castiel looks straight through him with a kind of earnestness Dean has only dreamt of.

“I want to be with you, Dean Winchester,” Cas whispers, his breath warm over Dean’s lips.  “I want to be your _boyfriend_ and I want to do it _right_ and I will spend every day you’ll let me proving to you that I’m worth it.”

“Kiss me,” Dean answers, grabbing the warmed leather lapels of Castiel’s jacket and tugging; this time he doesn’t have to ask twice.  Castiel’s lips descend on his, smoothly and certainly, his hands framing Dean’s face once again.  The slow press of lips gives way slowly to a deeper kiss.  Castiel’s tongue tip teases against the swell of Dean’s bottom lip as he tilts Dean’s head.  With a slow give and take Dean’s body remembers Castiel’s taste and the roughness of his chapped lips, he remembers the perfect line of Castiel’s teeth and the slow press of his tongue, he remembers the last time they kissed like this - stoned and half-naked, pressed together - and he aches for more.

Dean pulls away reluctantly, his cheeks hot and his belly squirming with desire as he struggles to get a steady breath.  Castiel is smiling as he looks down into Dean’s eyes again, his thumb brushing familiarly down Dean’s nose as he whispers, “Wanna get dinner with me?”

Dean nods and slips the red flannel shirt over his white t-shirt and they make their way down the stairs as stealthily as they can; Mrs. Anderson never looks away from _Happy Days_ as they head out the door.

***

Whether by design or by chance, they end up back at the little cafe where they once had breakfast.  Dean finds himself smiling as they walk through the door, Castiel’s fingers threaded through his own.  He looks back at Dean, smiling, too, as he pulls his boyfriend toward the back of the cafe and the same booth they sat in before.

“I wanted to go talk to you,” Dean says as Castiel settles into the booth beside him.  “I missed your show because I had to work and then I felt too stupid to go to your apartment.”

“It’s all right,” Castiel says, slipping his arm around Dean’s shoulder and pressing their temples together.  “We can talk now.”

Dean feels the weight lift off his chest at the sincerity in Castiel’s words as he presses their cheeks together.  He’s so pleased to be sitting beside Cas that he can only grin like a fool when the waitress gives them a distasteful stare while she takes their order.  Dean’s stomach flips with nervous excitement when Castiel kisses the curve of his ear and nibbles at his earlobe, feeling as though they’ll be discovered at any second.  

They speak in hushed whispers, lips an inch apart, as Castiel tells Dean that Linear Lime Fortress is really starting to take off and he’s almost certain they’ll be discovered any time. In return, Dean tells Castiel about his promotion at work - how he’s second in command of the entire shop now - and he wishes they’d been able to celebrate their successes together.  Castiel chuckles, soft and breathy, and presses a lingering kiss to Dean’s lips.

“We can celebrate now,” Cas says and Dean’s heartbeat quickens as a blush spreads across his cheeks.  Their reunion is interrupted by the waitress clearing her throat loudly and practically dropping their plates on the table in front of them before she stalks off.  Dean’s stomach clenches anxiously, but Castiel smiles and kisses him again before murmuring “fuck her” against his lips.

Dean picks at his burger and fries, his stomach too busy with its nervous flips to focus on eating.  With the way the evening is going, he wonders if he should tell Castiel he’s a virgin, blushing at the mere thought of _that_ conversation.  Cas leans his shoulder against Dean’s and pops a fry in his mouth, chewing as he asks why Dean’s blushing; Dean blushes redder, his neck and ears hot.  He shakes his head and grins and pops another fry in his own mouth, deciding the conversation can wait.

“Do you like pie?”  Castiel asks after they’ve finished their meals.  “I think we need pie for our celebration.”

“I _love_ pie,” Dean answers enthusiastically. 

Castiel makes a show of calling their recalcitrant waitress back over, she rolls her eyes and gives them both go-to-hell looks as she stalks back to their table.  When she returns a moment later with a single slice of apple pie and two forks, her face is red with anger.  Dean’s stomach twists again, his body tensed against the epithet he’s _sure_ is coming; but she drops off the pie - and their check - without a word, turns brusquely on one hell and walks away.

“Some people just can’t stand to see other people happy,” Castiel says, his tone exaggeratedly dramatic.  His eyes flit to Dean’s face and Dean tries to smile, but he can’t get rid of the twist in his gut until Castiel wraps an arm around him and pulls him close even as he lifts a fork full of apple pie.  The earnestness returns to Castiel’s voice as he whispers with utter confidence,  “It’s okay, I’m here.”

The knot in Dean’s stomach starts to uncoil as he opens his mouth to take the proffered pie; Castiel rumbles with approval, and Dean doesn’t give the bitchy waitress another thought.  They don’t linger past the end of the pie, except for a stolen cinnamon-sugary kiss or two.  Dean’s temple is pressed against Castiel’s again, his heart beating double-time in his chest when Cas asks teasingly, “Do you have a curfew on school nights?”

***

The second the door is locked behind them, Castiel strips Dean out of his overshirt.  Castiel’s heavy leather jacket hits the floor next.  They kiss desperately, inelegantly, with too much teeth and not enough breath, as Castiel pulls Dean across the living room and down the hallway, shedding clothes as they go.  By the time they make it to Castiel’s bedroom, they’re down to their underwear, bare torsos pressed hard together.  

They fall into the bed that’s barely big enough for two grown men.  Dean lands on his back with Castiel’s lean body half on top of him.  Castiel’s bare thigh finds its way between Dean’s legs, firm pressure against the length of Dean’s hardness that makes him suck a quick breath and shiver.  With his hands sliding down Castiel’s back and up again, Dean rolls his hips upward, grinding his leaking cock into the rough fabric of his underwear.  Castiel’s lips are on Dean’s neck, kissing and dragging wetly between teasing drags of teeth and presses of tongue.  It feels so familiar, so _right_ , and Dean moans in pleasure.

“I want you to fuck me,” Dean says breathlessly, tracing his tongue against the steel rings that decorate the curve of Castiel’s right ear.  

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, his voice heated and raw as he grinds his thick cock against Dean’s hip. 

“ _Please_ ,” Dean groans when Cas bites down on his shoulder.  Castiel shudders and takes a shaky breath as he pulls away and looks into Dean’s eyes.

“Have you before?”  Castiel kisses him slow and deep, tongue fucking into his mouth until Dean is shivering uncontrollably with want.  When he pulls away again, he adds, “With a man?”

“No,” Dean confesses, squirming under Castiel’s weight and rolling his hips up again, desperate for friction.

“Not like this, then,” Cas murmurs, a lazy smile on his face as he starts to slide down the bed, kissing his way down Dean’s bare chest.  Dean doesn’t have time to be disappointed as Cas quickly stops to suck at his nipple, rolling it between his lips until Dean’s fingers are tangled in his hair, twisting and pulling.  Castiel moans with pleasure, sucking harder until Dean cries out, his hips bucking wildly to squeeze his dick between their bodies.

When he finally gets finished with Dean’s nipple and starts down his body again, Castiel is trembling finely against him; to know that Cas wants him _that_ much is so hot it nearly melts Dean’s brain out his ears.  All he can do is gasp and growl and hum encouragement as Castiel’s teeth and lips scrape down over the softness of his belly.  When Castiel’s fingers hook under the waistband of Dean’s underwear, he’s pretty sure he’s going to embarrass himself.

“ _Wait!_ ”  Dean moans and Castiel lifts his head instantly, his brows knit and eyes impossibly blue set above the red splotches of blush on his cheeks.  Dean’s fingers card through Castiel’s hair and he tries desperately to ignore the warmth of Castiel’s breath on his stomach.  He swallows hard and gulps air and forces the impending orgasm that’s curled around his insides like a slippery fist to relax.  “I just..  I need a second.”

Castiel’s worry fades into a smile and he nods, humming a soft “mmhmm” against Dean’s belly even as he is pulling Dean’s underwear down to his thighs.  He teases kisses against Dean’s hipbone, effectively distracting him from the warmth of skin almost close enough to touch his dick.  Dean’s fingers twist in Castiel’s hair again, this time pushing him toward his cock.  Castiel moves easily under Dean’s direction, licking a stripe up the side of his cock, then up the underside. Dean’s free hand fists in the rumpled sheet and pulls as he grits his teeth on a low, rumbling moan.  Before he has time to make Castiel slow down, his cock is engulfed in wet heat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean groans, the word torn from his chest by warmth of Castiel’s mouth around his dick.  He lifts his head to look down past his own heaving chest and sees the mischievous sparkle in the blue eyes staring back at him.  He knows he won’t last long and no amount of pulling on Castiel’s hair is budging him now, so Dean closes his eyes and rolls his hips up again, this time pressing the head of his cock against the back of Castiel’s throat with a hoarse croaked, “Oh, _God_.”

The answer is a soft hum from Castiel’s throat, vibrating through Dean even as his tongue slides back and forth against the underside of Dean’s shaft.  His head bobs quickly, cheeks hollowed as he sucks and presses the flat of his tongue.  Dean writhes on the bed, giving up on pulling Castiel’s hair in favor of grabbing the pillow behind his head with both hands.  Castiel’s hands wrap around Dean’s hips, holding him steady as he slurps at his cock.  It’s the most obscene - and hottest - thing Dean’s ever heard.

With his eyes squeezed tight and a death grip on the pillow, Dean’s body bows upward as he plants his feet on the bed.  One of Castiel’s hands slips away from his hip and up his chest only to drag blunt nails down the center of his body; the added sensation on top of the feeling of the tip of his cock slipping into and out of Castiel’s throat is too much and Dean’s hips buck erratically as his cock jerks in Castiel’s mouth.

“I’m gonna..” Dean says breathlessly, though it’s too late by the time he gets the words out.  Castiel’s mouth is full of come, hotter and wetter as he swallows it down, humming with pleasure and panting through his nose between swallows.  Dean’s temperature shoots up at least ten degrees as Castiel continues to suck and swallow long after his cock has started to soften.  All he can do is moan and squirm and close his thighs against the sides of Castiel’s head.  He reaches down, finally, and grabs Castiel by the hair, pulling as he begs, “Stop.  Oh, fuck, please..  _please_ stop.”

Castiel allows himself to be pulled off this time, grinning wide and licking his lips in a way that makes Dean feel utterly scandalized.  He takes his time crawling back up Dean’s body, dropping lazy kisses and murmuring sweet nothings.  His cock is still hard when it presses against Dean’s hip again, but he seems much more interested in kissing.  The taste of Dean’s come is sharp and earthy, not at all what he thought it would be.

He takes Castiel’s face in both hands, pulling him into a deep kiss, licking his flavor out of Castiel’s mouth until all he can taste is his lover again.  Castiel’s hips jerk occasionally, grinding the thickness of his cock against Dean’s hip as his hand roams up and down Dean’s side and they share sweet kisses and warm breath.  Dean feels Castiel’s cock starting to soften as they press together, Castiel’s kisses wandering down his neck and across his shoulder, but always finding their way back to his lips.

“Cas?”  Dean murmurs, drowsiness creeping up on him as the room starts to darken with twilight.

“Hmm?”  Castiel asks, lifting his head to look at Dean.

“Do you want me to..”  Dean gestures down Castiel’s body, feeling his cheeks flush hot and his tongue get all tied up because he’s not even sure what he’s offering.  Castiel grins and shakes his head.

“No, but you can smoke with me,” Cas answers with another lazy smile.  Dean’s stomach twists warmly at the memory of the last time they smoked together.  Castiel adds a soft, “If you wanna.”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, pushing Castiel’s hair back out of his face with one hand.  “Yeah, I wanna.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There's brief racism in this chapter._

Castiel leans back against the side of his bed with half a joint pinched tightly between his thumb and middle finger and exhales a lung full of sour smoke.  After carefully knocking the cherry into the ashtray beside him, he turns his attention to the notebook balanced on his bare thigh, studying the words closely before closing his eyes and leaning his head back.  Blood whooshes through his ears, expands and contracts minutely in his fingertips, and races pleasantly through his chest.

On the bed behind him Dean sleeps, his even breaths like music to Castiel’s ears.In the three weeks since he found Dean’s address in the flannel shirt and went to make promises he never thought he’d make, the two men have been nearly inseparable.It’s good, mostly; comfortable.They’ve fallen into a routine of sorts that revolves around Dean’s 12-hour days at the body shop and Linear Lime Fortress’four scheduled and one or two short notice shows per week.  

The schedule is taxing but more fans than ever are piling in to see them play and important people are _definitely_ starting to take notice.Castiel has heard rumors of record executives putting out feelers and although he tries to keep his mounting excitement in check, he can’t help feeling like their big break is finally on the horizon.Michael is happy to have Dean around if only because it means Castiel is less of an asshole and more of a songwriter; Raphael makes snide remarks whenever he can fit one in, but he always _has_ been something of a malcontent where change in the status quo is concerned.

Their hectic schedule has also not left much room to address the not at all insignificant matter of sex, which Castiel is determined to do right despite Dean’s impatience.It’s not every day you lose your virginity, after all.A lazy smile lifts the corners of Castiel’s lips as he lets his mind drift to broken sounds of frantic pleasure that spill from Dean’s plush lips when they do nothing but rut and kiss and jerk one another off, he shivers with anticipation of the sounds he has to look forward to.That’s in the future, though, when Dean is actually ready and Castiel has time to make it good.

“What time is it, Cas?”Dean’s sleep-stained voice breaks Castiel’s stoned reverie and leaves him swallowing the lump of desire in his throat.

“I dunno,” Castiel answers hoarsely, turning to rest his arm on the edge of the bed and his chin on his arm as he watches Dean grope toward the nightstand for his watch.He reaches up with his free hand to catch Dean’s wrist gently and says, “Late.”

Dean smiles and snuffles into the pillow under his head, stifles a yawn, and murmurs, “Then put your notebook up and come to bed.”

Castiel wavers, glancing over the notebook and six lines of a new song he’s written since Dean went to sleep.When he looks back up, Dean has one eye cracked open against the yellowed light of the lamp.A moment later, Cas stretched out in the darkness against Dean’s body with one leg thrown over his hip.Dean’s palm presses clumsily against Castiel’s jaw, still uncoordinatedly sleepy as their lips meet for a slow, lingering kiss and then another.Within five minutes, Dean is asleep again, his half-hard cock nestled against Castiel’s as his warm breath tickles Castiel’s throat.

With a tired yawn, Castiel wraps his leg a little tighter over Dean’s hip and closes his eyes.Sleep comes easily.

***

 He hates it when Dean can’t make it to see the band play.  With the sudden surge in their popularity, the bars are so packed that management has to turn people away.  Proud and grateful though he may be, Castiel has lost the ability to move freely before and after the shows without being accosted by drunken revelers who want to discuss the government’s duplicity or, worse, grope him.  Raphael and Michael bask in the newfound fame, but Castiel just sits in the band room off to the side of the stage and fends off Anna’s flirtations when she brings him beer.

It would all be easier if Cas could just announce that he is now - and for the foreseeable future - property of Dean Winchester, please and thanks, but the mere suggestion of pulling their relationship completely out of the closet for all of New York to see had sent Dean scurrying back to his rented room at Mrs. Anderson’s house for two days of anxious silence.Castiel’s stomach ties in knots when he thinks about Dean’s fear of being seen as gay even though he sleeps in another man’s bed more nights than he doesn’t.He tries not to think about what might have happened in Dean’s past to make him so afraid, but the thoughts come unbidden at the worst times and settle like a heavy weight on Castiel’s heart.  

At the sight of the smiling redheaded bartender walking up the other side of the stage and across it toward where he sits, Castiel blinks away the burn in the corner of his eyes and swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Boss told me to bring you these,” Anna says as she takes a seat on the worn couch beside him and offering two beers.

“Thanks, Anna,” Castiel answers with a smile, taking the bottles from her.

“He also told me to tell you there’s someone important here tonight,” she says, hazel eyes lighting up with excitement.“I think it’s a label scout!”

“Really?”Castiel’s stomach squirms with excitement, a flutter of tightness squeezing his chest as he takes a long swig of beer.  

“Yeah, Mr. Allen has seen the dude once before and the band he came to see got a personal visit from the label _president_ two days later.”Anna nods at her own words and grins, her hand coming to rest on Castiel’s thigh just above his knee;Cas fervently wishes that Dean was here for moral support as he pushes her hand off his leg.She laughs and winks as she tells Castiel, “You can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Just as she retreats back across the stage, the bar’s back door opens with a rush of cold air as Raphael and Michael finally decide to show up.Castiel passes along Anna’s message and the three men huddle together on the couch to settle on a game plan for the show in the fifteen minutes before they’re due to take the stage.Once on stage, Castiel throws himself into the music, nervous energy fueling his frenetic jumping as he feeds off the wall of sound that is the fans screaming his lyrics back to him.By the time the hourlong set is over, the long hair on the top of Castiel’s head is matted with sweat and pulled into gravity-defying twists and his clothes are soaked through and dripping.

The tight-packed crowd erupts into whoops and shouts for the band to play all night as Cas turns to see Michael and Raphael wearing grins to match his own.The unruly crowd starts to lob the clothing they’re shedding onto the stage and the band takes a sarcastic bow and make their exit back to the little room by the back door before beer bottles start to fly.They’re in the middle of slapping one another on the back in congratulations, Michael and Castiel still hopping excitedly in place with leftover adrenaline when an unfamiliar English accented comes from the stage steps.

“Exciting show,” the posh voice enunciates clearly.

“Thanks,” Castiel says automatically as he turns around to find a short, stocky man with a well-trimmed beard and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.The man looks Castiel slowly up and down, sizing him up as though he thinks he can intimidate the tall, thin punk in front of him with just a look.Castiel offers a sweaty hand to shake, but the man just looks at it, too, before he turns his attention to Michael and Raphael for the same treatment.

“Who’re you?”Raphael is the one to ask and the short man’s face pinches in barely concealed distaste.

“You can call me Crowley,” he answers, looking at Castiel as he speaks.“I’ve been sent here on behalf of Hellhound Records.My boss thinks you’re going places and he wants to take you there.”

Castiel’s spine straightens at the obvious snub and he looks over his shoulder to find Michael and Raphael shifting uncomfortably in place, looking at one another.He steps between Raphael and Crowley, arms crossed over his chest as he uses his height advantage to loom over the little round English prick.

“Then we’d like to speak to your _boss_ ,” Castiel says quietly.

“Only you, _darling_ ,” Crowley says with another saccharine smile as he holds out his business card.“We make it a policy to conduct preliminary discussion with one member of a.. _band_.Your mates will be invited to the next meeting, assuming there _is_ a next meeting.”

Castiel’s chest squirms with discomfort and he’s opening his mouth to tell Crowley where he can shove it when Michael reaches around him to pluck the card from Crowley’s outstretched fingers.

“He would be _delighted_ to accept your _generous_ offer,” Michael says, voice dripping with grating insincerity.Crowley’s reply is a disgruntled huff and another distasteful glance over Castiel’s shoulder before he turns and walks away.

***

 Dean is finally off work and at Castiel’s apartment when the drunken bandmates arrive an hour and a half after their encounter with Crowley.  Castiel pulls him off the couch and onto his feet before taking his face in both hands and leaning up to kiss him full on the lips.  Michael whoops and Dean squirms against Castiel’s body, trying to get away from the slightly-too-public display of affection.  Dean’s face is red when Castiel lets him go and opens his eyes, his freckles standing out over flushed skin and Castiel can’t help leaning in for another quick kiss.  

After a gentle and half-teasing rebuke, they settle on the couch as Michael and Raphael sprawl out in the middle of the floor; Cas choose to ignore the sour look on Raphael’s face as he wraps his arm around Dean’s shoulders and pulls him close.Dean is ecstatic at the news of the Hellhound Records scout, his face the beaming picture of pride and his momentary embarrassment forgotten when the men pop open a round of beers to celebrate.When Raphael and Michael wobble out the door two hours later, Dean locks the door behind them and returns with a sultry smile to straddle Castiel’s thighs.

“So,” Dean says, the pads of his thumbs tracing along the curve of Castiel’s jawline.He leans in for a kiss, long lashes dipping low over brilliant green as he whispers, “I think we should celebrate.”

“Ya think?”Castiel answers when Dean pulls away a moment later.His hands settle familiarly on Dean’s hips, his thumbs pushed against the softness of Dean’s belly under his shirt, rubbing against his warm skin.

“Yeah,” Dean says, quiet and raw.His hips roll in Castiel’s hands even as he bends to bite at Castiel’s bottom lip gently, sucking and tugging with his teeth before he lurches forward to kiss Castiel again.Cas sighs with pleasure just ahead of the press of his lips, the friction of Dean’s body against his slowly hardening cock a welcome addition.They both lose their shirts in short order, bare chests pressed, damp skin dragging as Dean’s lips trail to Castiel’s shoulder, dropping open-mouthed kisses along the way.

Castiel drags his fingers up over the thick muscles that run either side of Dean’s spine, up over the tops of his shoulders to hold him in place.Soft groans and needy whimpers fill his ears as he starts to fuck up against Dean’s body, two layers of denim between them.The way Dean grinds down in response feels good, right, and Castiel can feel his heart thumping behind his breastbone.

“I’m going to fuck you so good, Dean,” Castiel murmurs hoarsely, his lips hovering just beneath Dean’s earlobe.“Not tonight, but soon.”  

He presses a kiss and drags his teeth, pulling a broken moan from Dean’s chest that settles in the pit of his own stomach like a lump of molten iron.Dean’s fingers twist in his hair, pulling tight as he ruts in Castiel’s lap, his kisses erratic and breathy as he chokes out, “Why not tonight, Cas?”

Castiel’s heart races, his chest squeezing tight as he grinds up, squeezing his cock savagely between his body and Dean’s.He nips along the curve of Dean’s jaw, his tongue teasing the sensitive flesh beneath as he holds Dean steady with one hand still curled over the top of his shoulder and the other settles back to Dean’s hip.Another kiss, slow and deep and fucking his tongue against Dean’s until the man in his lap is wriggling uncontrollably, panting out groans as he pulls away.

“Because I want you to be ready,” Castiel answers simply, followed by a flurry of quick kisses.His voice feels strained in his throat, his cock achingly hard as it rubs against Dean’s denim-clad ass.Dean lifts his head, his brow pulled tightly over lust-hazed green eyes.

“How do you know I’m not ready?”Dean’s voice is thick and he licks out over his lips, slow and steady with the push of his tongue that makes Castiel’s belly twist so dirty and hot that he forgets everything except how good that tongue would feel pressed to the underside of his cock.He can’t stop a whimper of his own, fighting to get enough air with each shallow breath.He doesn’t want to answer the question, knowing that Dean won’t like it one little bit.He doesn’t really have a choice, though, when Dean’s gaze meets his accompanied by an expectant, “Cas?”

“I’m not going to give you another reason to hate yourself,” Castiel whispers gently, trying to soften the words with his tone.Dean’s body stiffens and his mouth sets into a hard line.Ten seconds later, Castiel’s lap is empty and Dean is disappearing into the hallway with Cas watching wordlessly, knowing that anything else he says will only make matters worse.He does, however, consider the fact that his green-eyed firestorm actually stayed in the apartment this time an improvement.

Castiel unbuttons his jeans with a sigh and pulls his dick into a more comfortable position before he stretches out on the couch.He notices Crowley’s business card on the floor where Michael left it and picks it up to take a closer look, flipping it over when he notices writing on the back.In overly neat script on the blank back of the card it says, “2 p.m. Friday, 22 December.Don’t be late!”  

The date on Crowley’s card is two days away. Castiel closes his eyes and drops the card back on the floor, shifting his cock in his jeans again as he tries to get comfortable on the lumpy couch.He forces himself to ignore the rolling discomfort in the pit of his stomach, uncertain whether it’s related to Dean or Crowley.He’s only thankful that it doesn’t take long before the evening’s excitement and alcohol start to push him toward well-deserved unconsciousness, even if he _is_ alone in his living room.

 

*****

 

Dean lies alone in Castiel’s bed, his pride still smarting from Castiel’s quiet words.Try as he might, he can’t find a way to rationalize the way he feels that does anything _other_ than proving Castiel right. _I don’t hate myself_ , he thinks over and over again, but his mind always follows it with, _I just wish things were different_.He turns from his back to his side, staring at the thin line of light coming under the bedroom door, wishing Castiel would come walking through it.He doesn’t, however, and Dean is left alone with his thoughts.

He squeezes the bridge of his nose to try to alleviate the sting that comes with thinking about Kansas, but it doesn’t help.He hadn’t even known when he left that he wasn’t straight; not for sure, anyway.He just knew that other guys his age were chasing girls while he was busy running away from them.He dated one girl all through high school, her name was Lisa and she was pretty and bubbly and fun to be around, but there’d never been a _spark_ with her; certainly nothing the magnitude he felt the first time he laid eyes on Castiel.The first time Dean and Lisa parked his dad’s Impala in the middle of a cornfield and crawled into the back seat, Dean thought something was wrong with him.The second time, he _knew_ something was.

Dean takes a deep breath, forcing his lungs to expand until his chest aches, then lets it out slowly.He never knew how his dad found out what he told Lisa the last time he saw her.She’d been shocked, her face ashen when he’d held her hands and whispered that he thought he might be gay.She hugged him and promised not to tell anyone and Dean trusted her.Three days later, John Winchester had caught him walking in the front door from work and knocked him to the floor.In a flurry of fists and hateful words, he’d been left bloodied and sobbing on the living room floor.Two days after that, he’d left for New York and never looked back.

His three years in the city hadn’t done much to set his head right.He’d gotten a job, found a room, dated a string of girls he wasn’t interested in because it’s what he was supposed to do.It wasn’t until one of his girlfriends dragged him to a seedy punk bar to see a band called Linear Lime Fortress play because she thought the guitarist was cute that things clicked into place for Dean.He knew when he saw Castiel for the first time that all his self-doubts were true.He’d spent the whole show nursing a half-hard cock and when he fucked his girlfriend later that night, all he could think about was how nice it would be if it was the harsh lines of Castiel’s body against his instead of the softness of the girl he was with.He broke up with her the next day; this time he gave no explanation.

Dean gives one last look toward the door, realizing that Castiel isn’t coming to bed tonight.He shouldn’t be surprised, but he still is as he shakes himself out of his pool of self-pity before he sighs and turns his back to the door.Dean knows he needs to try in earnest to sleep since it’s late and five o’clock in the morning comes too early on the best of days.Ten minutes later, the last thought that bounces through his head as he starts to drift is that he’s going to prove to Castiel that he’s ready to take the next step in their relationship sooner rather than later.

***

When the alarm on the nightstand goes off at five, Dean hasn’t had a chance to move before it stops.Castiel is pressed against his back and grumbling that the sun isn’t even up yet, his arms wrapped tightly around Dean’s body.Dean smiles and yawns and wriggles himself closer to Castiel with a hum of agreement.He slips his fingers through Castiel’s and yawns again before he drifts back off to sleep with the warmth of Cas’breath on the back of his shoulder.He doesn’t even mind that his boss yells at him for being two hours late for work.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There's some gross attempted bribery/coercion (non-sexual) in this chapter. There's also violence - still not graphic, but a little more serious than in the earlier chapter. Also, just as a note "Lou" is supposed to be Lucifer. I'm not entirely sure that's clear._

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in an expensive leather chair under the watchful eye of the woman he assumes is Crowley’s boss’ secretary.  The nameplate on her tidy desk reads “Meg Masters”, but when he tried to greet her by that name, the dark-haired woman had looked up from filing her nails only long enough to give him a sour look and point toward the chair he’s now planted in.  Castiel shifts again, jiggling his leg up and down nervously as he picks at the threads at the edges of one of the holes in his jeans, fighting the nausea building in his stomach.  He decides that maybe arriving half an hour early was overkill.

He still doesn’t like being here without Michael and Raphael, though they’d _insisted_ he come to the meeting with Crowley’s boss; they’d gone so far as to give him their blessing to broker any sort of deal he could with cajoling pep talks and a chorus of “we trust you”.  Castiel doesn’t want the responsibility of making decisions for the whole band, he never has.  He may joke that it’s his band and people may assume that because he’s the singer, it _is_ his band, but when push comes to shove his bandmates are his oldest friends and their friendship is more important than any stupid record deal.

Cas shakes his hands out and straightens his heavy leather jacket then leans his head back to look at the ceiling.  He wishes now that he’d had the foresight to get stoned for this meeting; with that option off the table, he pulls his cigarettes and lighter out of his jacket pocket.  His hands shake with nerves as he takes a smoke from the rumpled pack and puts it between his lips.  With practiced ease, he flips his Zippo open to a flame, tilting his head to light the Marlboro and taking a long, calming drag.

“So, which band are you from?”  Meg’s voice is softer than he expected and when he looks up, she’s smiling at him as though she _wasn’t_ being an asshole ten minutes ago.

“Linear Lime Fortress,” Castiel answers as he takes the cigarette from between his lips and forces himself to smile back at her.

“Oh, I heard Mr. Crowley talking about you,” she says.

“Really?”  Castiel’s heartbeat quickens with nerves and excitement.

“Yes,” Meg replies with a pleased smirk, “I heard him tell Mr. Nicholas that there must’ve been acid involved at some point.”

Castiel is still choking on cigarette smoke when the office door behind Meg’s desk opens and Crowley - looking just as displeased to be mixing with the riffraff as he had at the bar - beckons him in.  He stubs out what’s left of his cigarette in the ashtray beside his chair and clears his throat before he pushes to his feet.  As he walks by Meg’s desk he gives her a wink and whispers, “There was _definitely_ acid involved.”

With a deep breath and a nervous swallow, Castiel squares his shoulders and walks into the impressively appointed office.  The man behind the desk is pale as death, his well-tailored white suit clashes with his messy strawberry blond hair, and the entrenched sneer on his face does nothing to settle Castiel’s nerves.  Crowley, equally well appointed in a black suit, stands at the man’s right elbow with his phony smile already in place and the pair of them make Castiel’s skin crawl like nothing he’s ever encountered.

The seated man, who Castiel assumes must be Mr. Nicholas, is bent over a thick stack of papers.  His finger traces down the top page as he “tsk”s and “hmm”s his way from top to bottom.  Castiel clears his throat loudly and Crowley’s smile fades to a warning stare that makes his stomach clench unhappily as he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets to stop them fidgeting.

“I’m glad you could make it,” the man says when he finally looks up from the papers on his desk a few minutes later to offer his hand for Castiel to shake.  His clammy skin reminds Castiel of a snake more than anything.  “I’m Lou Nicholas, the president of Hellhound Records.  You can call me Lou.”

“Castiel Miller,” Cas replies, pulling his hand away as quickly as he possibly can without being rude.

“I asked you here today to talk about your future in music, Castiel,” Lou says with a smile just as saccharine and phony as Crowley’s.  “My company has the means to take you to the top, but I have to ask what _you’re_ willing to give us in return.”

Castiel’s skin prickles with honest-to-God fear when Crowley’s smile widens wolfishly, but he feels incapable of saying no when Lou points to the high-backed leather wing chair in front of his desk.

***

 “You’re _shitting_ me,” Michael says incredulously.  

“God’s honest truth,” Castiel says, rubbing the back of his neck to try to push the tiny hairs down.  “Crowley was standing there looking like he was gonna eat me while Lou laid out the _plan_.”

Michael blinks and chews at his lower lip; Raphael crosses his arms over his chest and stares across the practice stage at Castiel.

“And he actually _said_ that if you’d fuck his sister, he’d sign us?”  Michael looks as stunned as Castiel had felt when Lou was driving home the benefits of _being a team player_ and _giving back to the company_.

“Not exactly,” Castiel admits with a shrug.  “His _exact_ words were that if I would ‘date’ his sister.  The fucking was implied.  Either way, it’s not happening.”

“You’re full of shit,” Raphael says, the first words he’s spoken since Castiel arrived at the band’s practice studio with the news.  “There’s no way he said that.”

“Why the fuck would I lie to you?”  Castiel growls, feeling anger twist around his insides as Raphael steps out from behind the drums to get right in his face.

“I dunno, _Cas_ ,” Raphael spits Dean’s nickname with such vitriol that Castiel takes half a step backward.  “Maybe you’ve got your dick so far up your precious little faggot’s ass you forgot who _you_ are.”

Crimson stains the edges of Castiel’s vision as his coiled body lurches forward of its own volition.  Without a thought, Raphael is on his back on the stage and Castiel’s fingers are closing around his throat.  Sadistic pleasure twists in the pit of Castiel’s stomach as he watches Raphael’s eyes go wide with fear; and, even though he’s smaller, the rage that courses through his veins gives him the strength to ignore Raphael’s wild flailing and Michael’s hands pulling at his jacket as he squeezes tighter and tighter.  He enjoys the way Raphael’s flesh gives under his fingertips, the way his breath falls to choked gasps and sputters and cut off pleas.

“You’re gonna kill him, Castiel!”  

Michael’s panicked cry finally pushes its way through the red haze and into Castiel’s consciousness.  It takes a few more seconds to force his fingers to loosen and let go.  He leans forward, the heel of his palm pressed against the underside of Raphael’s chin, shoving his head hard into the plywood stage as he stares into terrified brown eyes.

“If you even _think_ about calling Dean anything like that again,” Castiel hisses, “I will rip your fucking throat out.”

He pushes to his feet and lets his gaze travel from Raphael clutching at his throat and coughing as he rolls onto his side to Michael, who’s staring big-eyed and white as a sheet.  Adrenaline prickles the back of Castiel’s neck and forces his fingers to flex into fists and relax in spasms.  When Michael finally meets his gaze, Castiel asks: “Do you have anything to add?”

Michael raises his hands defensively and takes a step backward and for the first time Castiel can remember, he makes no attempt to defend Raphael’s actions as harmless fun or a misunderstanding.  In fact, he says nothing as Castiel straightens his jacket and jumps off the stage.  Although silence follows him out the door, he’s halfway home before the ugly gray wisps of rage twisting in his chest subside and he can breathe easily.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel is knee-deep in self-pity by the time Dean lets himself in the apartment’s front door two hours later than he usually gets home, but he still knows instantly that something’s wrong.  Dean’s shoulders are hunched and his eyes guarded as he shirks out of his jacket and lays it carefully over the armchair.  His steps are hesitant as he moves away from the door and toward the couch where Castiel has been sitting since he got home from the practice studio; he takes a seat on the opposite end, out of Castiel’s reach.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Cas?”  Dean stares at his own hands where they’re clasped in front of him, his face pulled tight with unhappiness.  

Castiel struggles to figure out what he’s done wrong _this_ time, but comes up empty, so he leans his head back against the couch and sighs.  He licks his lips slowly, giving his brain one last chance to come up with a defense to an unknown slight before he says, “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re mad?”

Dean inhales sharply and Castiel turns his head enough to crack one eye and look.  The corners of Dean’s mouth are pulled down and he’s still staring at his hands, though Castiel would swear that his bottom lip is quivering before he sucks it between his teeth.  Guilt squirms through Castiel like an eel, slick and uncomfortable in the spaces between his bones.  He’s in the process of leaning toward Dean to apologize when the quiet answer to his question comes.

“Raphael came to see me at work,” Dean says evenly, his bottom lip _definitely_ quivering.  Castiel’s throat tightens and he reaches for Dean’s clasped hands only to have them pulled away at the last second.  “He told me you quit the band.”

“ _What?_ ” Castiel’s question comes out more loudly than he intends and Dean cringes, drawing away to the far end of the couch before he lifts his head defiantly.  

“He told me what you said about me, too,” Dean says, his words clipped.  His face is flushed with embarrassment and he closes his eyes for a long breath.  When he opens them again, his jaw is set somewhere between anger and mortification as his eyes lock with Castiel’s.

“Come on, Dean,” Castiel croaks.  Panic rises in the back of his throat with the taste of bile when Dean flinches away from his touch again, defiance crumpling visibly at the edges.  Cas looks straight into Dean’s eyes, silently pleading with him to listen, “I don’t know what he told you, but it wasn’t true.  You _have_ to believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Dean answers, his voice hoarse as he tries to pull his hands out of Castiel’s.  

Cas lets him go without a fight, tears stinging his eyes as he settles back onto his own end of the couch.  He holds his breath, expecting Dean to go stomping out the door in anger like he has before.  He stays, though, arms folded over his chest on the opposite end of the couch.  He refuses to let Castiel move any nearer as he fills in the blanks, his voice growing more distressed with each piece that falls into place.  Castiel learns that Raphael accosted Dean at work shortly after the altercation at the practice studio to accuse him of breaking up the band.  Worse, he planted a seed of doubt in Dean’s head that Castiel only indulged their “playing house” out of pity and sadistic glee in fleecing a naïve farm boy.

“Like a cat with a mouse,” Dean says, swallowing and rubbing his forehead.

“How could you think that about me?”  Castiel asks, fighting against the queasy tightness in his stomach that threatens to consume him.

“You _tell me_ you want me, but you never follow through.”

Dean’s words are so small; his voice so wounded that Castiel barely hears them over the rush of blood through his own ears.  His anger at Raphael evaporates in an instant with the realization that in trying to have a relationship he decided was _right_ for Dean; he forgot to consider what Dean _wanted_.

“Then let me,” Castiel says softly as he reaches tentatively for Dean’s hands again.  “Let me show you how much I want you.”

This time Dean doesn’t pull away.  He allows himself to be pulled easily to his feet when Castiel stands and tugs at his hand.  With fingers curled under Dean’s chin, Castiel lifts his face.  He lets the pad of his thumb trace across Dean’s lower lip, taking a moment to appreciate his delicate features; when their eyes meet Dean swallows audibly and licks out over his lips, his thick tongue teasing at Castiel’s thumb and sending his heartbeat fluttering wildly.  Without another word, he leans in to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s lips.

The lingering kiss turns into another turns into Castiel’s tongue teasing against the swell of Dean’s bottom lip as he pushes the flannel shirt off his shoulders.  Dean kisses back eagerly, his tentativeness fading slowly away as his hands find their way under Castiel’s shirt and push it up, calloused palms dragging up his sides.  His breath comes in ragged little gasps between wet kisses as he relieves Castiel of his t-shirt and Cas does the same in return.

They’re still kissing, sweet and tender and desperate, as Castiel takes Dean’s face in both hands and pulls him along down the hallway to the bedroom, their hips bumping with every short step.  After a brief stop at the edge of the bed to finish undressing one another with trembling hands between harder kisses, Castiel gives Dean’s bare hips a push to direct him onto the bed.  Dean crawls to the middle of the bed where he stays on his hands and knees, his body quivering as his ribcage expands on quick breaths.

“On your back,” Castiel directs, smiling to himself at the sight of Dean’s muscular body shivering with anticipation.  As he grabs the jar of Vaseline from the nightstand he says, “It’ll be better that way.”

Dean turns over quickly, his long body stretched out in the middle of Castiel’s bed and his thick cock curving up his belly.,  Castiel drops the open jar beside Dean’s hip and lets his body find a comfortable place molded against Dean’s side as he drops lazy kisses on his bare chest and up his throat.  He kisses Dean’s plump lips, tongue fucking slowly as his fingers wrap around Dean’s cock and start to stroke.  Dean’s low moan is like an electric charge down Castiel’s spine and he brushes the pad of his thumb across Dean’s slit to draw another.

“Are you sure about this?”  Castiel’s voice is breathy against Dean’s lips as he pulls away to ask, loose fist still stroking slowly even as he grinds the hardness of his own cock against Dean’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, a thick rasp.  He reaches up with a shaky hand to push Castiel’s hair back and smiles.  His face is flushed deep pink, his freckles standing like obscene constellations over hot skin, his green eyes pupil-wide.  Castiel’s stomach twists, hot and dirty, as he lets his fingers slip off Dean’s dick to smear precome up his belly.

Castiel kisses and bites at the side of Dean’s neck and he scoops out enough Vaseline for a thick coating on his fingers.  Dean’s body arches, his legs splaying wide and his  breath hissing out when Castiel delivers a particularly sharp bite.  Even as he starts to press the pad of his fingertip against Dean’s clenched hole, Castiel soothes the stung skin with a flurry of kisses.  He twists his finger, slowly working it into Dean’s ass while Dean squirms and groans and tugs spastically at his hair.

“Your ass is so _tight_ ,” Castiel whispers breathlessly as he starts to fuck slowly in and out of Dean’s ass.  Dean’s equally breathless half-formed words make his belly squirm with impatience; his cock leaking precome against Dean’s thigh.  The hot clench of Dean’s ass accompanied by his soft sounds of pleasure makes sweat prickle across Castiel’s shoulders.  He dips his head to find Dean’s lips again, kissing slow and deep as he starts to press against the tight muscles and work Dean open.

Dean drags his nails up Castiel’s back, sending him shivering forward with a desperate kiss and then another, soft whimpers filling the space between kisses as Cas slips a second finger into Dean’s ass and starts to fuck them slowly in and out again.  Dean arches, his chest heaving with each shallow breath as his sweaty skin slides easily against Castiel’s.  Cas returns his kisses to Dean’s neck and upper chest, sucking and biting, jaw clenched with the sweat-salt flavor.  

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean groans frantically when Castiel curls his fingers and presses against his prostate.  He fucks more quickly into Dean’s body, curling his fingers to hit Dean’s sweet spot every few thrusts until Dean’s free hand is pulling at the sheet under him and he’s moaning a steady stream of curses; his tanned body bowed off the bed.

“You like that?”  Castiel asks, his lips pressed against the curve of Dean’s ear as he lines up a third finger and starts to push them in again.  “You like the way my fingers feel in your ass getting you open and ready for my dick?”

“Oh, God,” Dean groans, his hips pushing impatiently as Castiel takes his sweet time pushing his fingers in.

“Touch yourself.  It’ll feel real good,” Cas murmurs, twisting and pushing his fingers, feeling Dean’s hole open around them.  When Dean scrambles to grab at his own cock, Castiel hums approval and curls his fingers, feeling for his prostate.  Dean cries out when Cas rubs his fingertips against it again and again, his fist jerking mercilessly at his dick.

With Dean occupied, Castiel gives his fingers one last twist and pulls them out slowly, wiping them off on the sheet before he moves to kneel between Dean’s splayed legs.  Dean’s eyes are squeezed tightly closed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he continues to stroke his cock, though his pace has slowed considerably as he struggles to get a full breath in.  Cas gently grabs Dean’s wrist to pull his hand away before giving his own leaking cock a thick coating of Vaseline and curling forward over Dean’s body.

“You have to relax,” Castiel says, his eyes on Dean’s as the head of his cock nudges against Dean’s hole.  “And you have to tell me if I hurt you.”

“I will,” Dean says hoarsely, his face flushed redder and his heart beating wildly against Castiel’s chest.  Cas pushes forward, a slow roll of his hips as he feels Dean’s tight heat start to pull him in.  Teeth clenched on a hiss of pleasure, Castiel closes his eyes tightly to focus on the feel of his dick sliding slowly into Dean’s body.  Under him, Dean’s breaths turn to breathless groans.

When the head of Castiel’s cock slips past the tight muscles, he stops and gives Dean a second to process and catch his breath, his body shivering.  Castiel opens his eyes to find Dean staring with wide eyes, tightened at the corners even as he wraps his legs around Castiel’s hips and tries to pull him deeper.

“Relax,” Castiel reminds him before he dips his head for a kiss.  It’s hot and hard and Dean’s frantic tonguefucking to accompany the drag of his blunt nails down Castiel’s back.  Cas pushes his hips forward again, feeling his cock slowly sliding past the muscles until he’s halfway buried.  With a deep breath, he shoves, burying himself in the tightness of Dean’s body.  They both cry out, hoarse and needy and breathless.

“I need..  I need a minute,” Dean groans, his voice tight as he squeezes his legs more tightly around Castiel’s hips.

“It’s all right,” Castiel reassures him, pressing breathless kisses all over his sweaty face.  He coos praise and waits until Dean’s legs relax and Dean’s hands on his back are no longer balled into fists before he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Dean growls, his rough palms sliding up and down Castiel’s back.  His voice quivers when he says, “I’m ready.”

 Castiel pulls out slowly and pushes back in, setting up a steady rhythm even as he slides his hands under the back of Dean’s shoulders and curls his fingers around the top.  With his knees drawn up, Castiel holds Dean in place and thrusts into him, deep and slow.  Dean’s body arches against Castiel’s; his cock trapped between their stomachs and his breaths trailing into whimpers of pleasure.

“God, I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you,” Castiel whispers against the side of Dean’s neck.  He picks his pace up slowly, thrusts punctuating his words.  “I’ve thought about what it would feel like to fuck you.”

“What’s it feel like?”  Dean’s voice is shot through, pure husk and hot breath before he bites down on Castiel’s shoulder to stifle a groan.

”You’re so tight and hot and I can feel you squeezed around me,”  Castiel’s stomach clenches with need, orgasm building like a freight train on its way as he thrusts more quickly, skin slapping obscenely as he struggles to focus through the pleasure.  Dean’s nails drag down his back and back up and Castiel’s rhythm goes to hell with quick, erratic rolls of his hips.  Through clenched teeth he says,  “I can feel every muscle twitch and I can feel your heart beat and your bones against mine.”

Dean’s hand pushes between their bodies to grab his dick as Castiel changes angles and pounds into him.  The fingers of his other hand twist in the long hair at the base of Castiel’s skull and pull hard enough to bring tears to his eyes as he lets his body be bowed.  Dean’s fist is hard against his stomach in contrast to the velvety softness of the head of Dean’s dick.

“I’m gonna come,” Dean moans, his body spasming as hot come pulses between their bodies, his warning once again a little late.

“Fuck,” Castiel growls at the clench and release of Dean’s hole around his cock.  He buries himself, grinding as he bites at the side of Dean’s neck, the frantic need in his belly like fire that courses outward until it explodes.  He rolls his hips, cock jerking in Dean’s ass as he chokes out , “Jesus, you’re so fucking _tight_.”

He fucks erratically until his cock stops jerking, the hot pool of pleasure squeezing his lungs until he’s gasping for breath in the hot, sweaty space between his lips and Dean’s neck.  Dean’s hands shake as they stroke up and down his back, his ribs expanding and contracting with the effort of breathing under Castiel’s weight.  When Castiel finally remembers to take a deep breath, his chest tightens with something different but no less painful.  Castiel lifts his head, his movements clumsy as he takes Dean’s face in both hands and shifts his weight to look into his eyes.  

“I love you, Dean Winchester,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing against Dean’s kiss-swollen lips.  “I’m sorry I ever made you doubt that.”

Dean blinks slowly before the corners of his eyes pull into the crinkles that always come with his most heartfelt smiles.  He pushes Castiel’s hair back out of his face again and swallows before he murmurs, “I love you, too.”

Castiel grins and presses a gentle kiss to Dean’s lips before he shifts to stretch out beside Dean, his head propped up on his hand.  He lets his eyes trace over Dean’s beautiful face, the fading pink blush still making his freckles stand out and the long lashes that sweep down over glass-green eyes each time he blinks.  With his palm in the middle of Dean’s chest, feeling the thump of his heart, Castiel lets out a long breath of a day’s full of built up tension and decides that maybe today wasn’t so bad after all.

“You are so beautiful,” Cas whispers.

Dean’s face tightens with discomfort only briefly before he leans up to kiss Castiel into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Condoms are good; Vaseline-as-lube is bad, but this *was* the 70s._


	10. Chapter 10

Dean thought he’d feel different after his first time.  Less confused, less insecure, somehow more settled; but he doesn’t.  He still feels like Dean Winchester; the pissed off kid who ran away from Kansas because his daddy yelled at him.  He watches Castiel closely all weekend, surprised by the change in _him_.  While Cas was never _not_ sweet or tender, now he goes out of his way to take care of Dean.  It started with coffee in bed and Castiel’s body pressed languidly against his own afterward, soft whispers and wandering hands that had no destination.

It’s nearly noon before they finally make it out of bed and Dean’s almost certain that the only reason they even got up _then_ was because he pressed for an answer about the future of Linear Lime Fortress.  Despite Castiel’s assurances that it has nothing to do with him, Dean can’t help feel responsible.  Especially when he thinks about how well the band got along the first time he went to the practice studio and met them all.  Castiel’s face is tight when he thinks Dean isn’t looking, his brow furrowed with worry.  Every time Dean asks what’s wrong - as though he doesn’t already know - Cas changes the subject.  By Saturday night, Dean has stopped asking.

They’re both thoroughly stoned when they make it to bed Saturday night and with the stomach twisting need to 'just fuck already' gone, Dean is happy to let Castiel tangle their legs together so they can rut together and share lazy kisses.  Castiel’s hands on his body feel different when he’s high, warmer and tackier and moving oh-so-much slower.  It’s nice, he thinks, pulling away from a kiss to share hot, sour breath.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, hoarse and breathless.  Castiel growls and bites Dean’s lip, his hips rolling slow and erratic as he kisses Dean again.  Pleasure twists around Dean’s spine, dipping to his tailbone as Castiel’s cock drags against his.  He’s right on the edge, so close to coming when Castiel finally speaks.

“I love _you_ ,” Cas murmurs, grabbing Dean’s hips and pulling him down hard.  That tips Dean over the edge and they kiss and grind and shiver their way through orgasm.  Dean’s eyelids are heavy, his body spent and sticky against Castiel’s.  Within minutes he’s asleep.

Sunday dawns uneventfully.  They brave the cold for breakfast at their favorite café.  Castiel doesn’t tell Dean where they’re headed when they leave, but they end up at the practice studio.  To Dean’s surprise the band’s black van is parked on the street outside. He’s even more surprised when Cas confides that the van is his.  Castiel directs Dean to the metal boxes that contain his gear and Dean dutifully loads them into the van while Cas leaves a letter of resignation in lime green spray paint on the wall for Michael and Raphael to find.  The drive back to Castiel’s apartment is comfortably quiet and the constant furrow in his brow has eased.

***

Dean is almost asleep on Sunday night when Castiel whispers against the back of his neck, “Are you awake, Dean?”

“Mm,” Dean answers noncommittally.  “Maybe.”

“I want to ask you something,” Cas says as he wraps his arms more tightly around Dean’s body.

“Shoot,” Dean says, stifling a yawn and turning his head to look back over his shoulder.  The room is pitch black and he can’t see anything, no matter how hard he strains.  Castiel’s heartbeat quickens noticeably against Dean’s back, sending a chill of fear down Dean’s spine.  He swallows hard as Cas takes a deep breath.

“Leave with me.”  Castiel’s breathless request sends Dean reeling.  “Let’s get the fuck out of here, just you and me.  Let’s go somewhere where we can be happy.”

“What about Michael and Raphael?”  Dean’s words are met with silence for a long moment.  Castiel breathes in slow and deep, his chin rested on Dean’s shoulder.  When he finally answers, there’s a finality in his voice that Dean doesn’t remember having heard before.

“I’ve put them first most of my life,” he finally answers.  “It’s time to do what’s right for me.  For _us_.” 

“Where would we go?”  The question slips past Dean’s defenses before he knows he’s going to ask it.  Castiel’s arms tighten reflexively around his body again, pulling Dean’s bare back against his bare chest.  Dean’s stomach lurches with excitement and fear; his palms sweat even as his mouth goes dry.

“San Francisco,” Cas replies instantly.  “It’s the best place for people like us.”

The words hit Dean like a ton of bricks.  _People like us._   He opens his mouth to defend his honor, but he’s struck silent with the thought that for the first time, he’s pretty okay with being a “people like us”.  He kissed a man, had sex with a man, fell in _love_ with a man; and the world didn’t end.  God didn’t strike him down in his tracks like he’s always been promised would happen if he so much as _looked_ at another man _like that_.

He’s heard stories about San Francisco; about how it’s okay to be gay because everyone else is, too.  The thought of being able to hold Castiel’s hand in public without worrying about what people will think is..  liberating.  Dean’s heart pounds in his chest as he turns in Castiel’s arms until their lips are a fraction of an inch apart.

Castiel presses a chaste kiss to Dean’s lips and whispers gently, “It’s okay if you don’t wanna.  I won’t be mad.”

“When do you want to leave?”  Dean asks, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.  Castiel’s lips curve into a grin against Dean’s, followed by a long, deep kiss.

***

It’s snowing when they leave New York City the day after Christmas; it couldn't be sunnier when they pass the Welcome to San Francisco sign on New Year’s Day.


End file.
